


Amalgamation

by hollycomb



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 23:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 78,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollycomb/pseuds/hollycomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1862, Kyle's family is forced to move from New York to a tiny mining settlement at the foot of Pike's Peak in Colorado. Kyle is sixteen years old and miserable until he meets Stan, a fellow transplant who has been in town for three years. Their feelings for each other are shadowed by the town's haunted history, and for Kyle the local legends begin to feel more like real nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Gerald was given his assignment papers in Kansas City, the last semblance of civilization before what Kyle had been warned was basically wilderness: nothing but mountains and desert until the ocean. There was also gold, which had given rise to some makeshift settlements, and even aggregations of humanity that claimed to be cities. Kyle felt damned to hell anyhow, after what had happened at Trinity and the way it had disgraced his family enough to chase them from the east coast entirely. He thought it was fitting that they should live in the craggy shadow of some western mountains, damp and solitary, outcast.

It was summer and unbearably hot on the train. Kyle had been playing at Christianity since applying to Trinity, and he'd heard plenty about the hell his teachers and classmates believed in. This felt like what he had envisioned on the way to or from Rodney's quarters so many nights, his feet like lead as he plodded toward eternity. Hell wasn't being in a fire so much as melting in air that felt like flame, and the stuffy confines of their train were perfectly suited to Kyle's earthly punishment. His brother and father were inert, staring at the window of the compartment. His mother was tugging her collar down and dabbing at her chest with a moistened handkerchief in an attempt not to faint.

"Kyle, have you eaten anything?" she asked when night began to fall. Ike was digging his teeth into some cold chicken their father had brought back from the dining car, and no one was scolding him for eating like an animal, using his hands. There were no plates, no utensils; the dining car was scarcely more than a bar with a stove top, Gerald had said.

"I'm not hungry," Kyle said, though he couldn't be sure that was true. His stomach was pinched up tightly with some combination of emptiness and dread, and it seemed too narrow a thing to get anything but the occasional sip of coppery-tasting water into.

"Eat something anyway," his mother said. It was her answer for everything and a frequent refrain since Kyle's fall from grace. His father had done little more than regard him sadly from a distance, and Ike reminded Kyle daily that he hated him for taking him away from his friends, the city, their lives.

Eventually they all slept, and Kyle tried to but couldn't. With the lights on in the hallway it was hard to see anything from the compartment window except for their pathetic, huddled reflections. He imagined that they must have entered the desert at some point during the night, though it was possible that there was a more direct route to Denver. They would be heading south from the station there, deeper into the mountains, toward a place called Pike's Peak that had been a significant source of wealth for prospectors in 1859 and for a few years afterward. Now, in 1862, the opportunities for particularly easy money were fading and the settlement at the foot of the mountains was becoming a dangerous place for those who remained. Kyle's father had sought a judgeship in an anonymous place where he could distract himself with the work of keeping order, and this was certainly anonymous, nonexistent to everyone they knew in New York. Kyle had thought New Jersey might be wilderness enough for the Broflovskis to escape into, but Professor Rodney Holland had proved to be more famous than Kyle had realized. He was infamous now, which made Kyle infamous enough by association to need to put two thousand miles between his family and the scandal.

The sun came up and an attendant came to the door of their compartment with coffee. Kyle drank some, foolishly, and it upset his empty stomach until he was sure he would be sick. Ike was annoyingly boisterous, talking about the reading he'd done on the wildlife in this part of the territory. The porter came down the hallway announcing that they would be arriving in a quarter of an hour.

"We'll be met at the station by the Sheriff," Kyle's father said.

"Oh, God," his mother said. "I hope he isn't some – wild man."

"I hope he has teeth," Ike said, drumming a fingertip against his front two. "At least a few."

Kyle felt as though their every negative expectation of the place and its citizens reflected badly upon him, and he supposed that was fair. This was what he had chosen for his family, unwittingly, by deviating from society, biology, and everything that constructed proper civilization, so they had been thrust from it.

No one met them at the station in Denver, and after the train pulled away, headed on to California, there was nobody on the platform except the hapless Broflovskis, surrounded by a pile of luggage, and a teenage boy who was sleeping in a chair, a hat pulled down over his face. It was approaching lunchtime, and Kyle's stomach was in terrible shape. He wanted a clean restroom, soft sheets, cool water. Everything in Denver was hot and dusty, and he did not expect to discover any of those comforts when they arrived at their final destination.

"I suppose we'll have to wait," Gerald said.

"Unless that's the Sheriff," Ike said, gesturing to the boy.

"Maybe he knows something, anyway," Gerald said, muttering. He approached the boy and cleared his throat. "Young man?" Gerald said. "Excuse me?"

The boy woke with a start, the chair that he'd tipped back against the side of the ticket counter landing hard on all four legs. His hat tumbled off, and he regarded Gerald with bleary confusion that quickly transformed into panic.

"Oh, gosh, oh!" he said, springing up. He was small and fair, with giant blue eyes that probably looked startled even under the best of circumstances. "I drifted off, oh gosh – do you know, mister, if the one o'clock from Kansas City come in yet?"

"Yes, it has," Sheila said, stepping forward to take over. She had a habit of doing so, and Kyle was rarely glad for it. "We've just arrived on that train, in fact, and we're looking for Sheriff, ah – Gerald, what was the man's name?"

"Stotch," Gerald said. "Stephen Stotch."

"Yeah, that's my dad!" the boy said, breaking into a random, manic grin that made Ike snicker. The boy bent down to retrieve his hat, screwed it back over his fluffy hair and threw his hand out for Gerald to take. "I'm Leopold, Stephen's son. He sent me 'cause he had some trouble in town that he had to see to. He sends his, um, regrets for his absence, but I can take ya'll into town."

"Leopold," Gerald said, shaking his hand. "Thank you, I—"

"You can call me Butters," he said. "That's what everyone in town calls me, on account of when I was little the other kids tricked me into showing my rear to the pastor for a joke, and they've called me Butters ever since." He turned progressively redder as he told this story, and he gave Sheila a shaky smile.

"Young man," she said, "I hope you can help us with our luggage. And I hope you can refrain from talking about your – unmentionables in front of a lady and an impressionable child during the trip to town."

"Mother," Ike said.

"Oh, dang, I'm sorry," Butters said, and he fidgeted, his cheeks coloring more deeply. "They told me you all were from the city and that you were real dignified and such, and they said, 'Butters is going to embarrass us all,' and I said, 'no, I will not!' but here I go talking about unmentionables, I'm sorry, ma'am, I only meant to explain my name—"

"Can you load the luggage, please?" Kyle said, unable to stand this any longer.

"I sure can!" Butters said, and he dashed for it as if someone had fired at his feet.

"You are not to order the people of this community around as if they work for us," Gerald said to Kyle in a whisper as Butters loaded their luggage into the carriage he'd brought, Ike assisting and Sheila overseeing.

"I'm sorry," Kyle said. "But this is absurd—" He made himself shut up when he saw in his father's eyes that he was restraining himself from reminding Kyle exactly why they were here. His parents had been kind not to cast him out completely, though he did partially blame them for the way he'd turned out, and for being so determined to send him to that goyim school.

Kyle had to ride up front with Butters, perhaps as punishment for having disrespected him. He was grim and tired, his stomach lurching as the horses drew the carriage over unpaved roads, and twice he had to swallow down coffee-flavored bile that threatened to rise. The mountains loomed around them, not majestic like the ones Kyle had seen during the family's trip to Europe. These were eerie and ominous, unwelcoming.

"How old are you?" Butters asked Kyle.

"Sixteen," Kyle said.

"Oh, how about that! I turn seventeen in September." Butters stared at Kyle as if he expected him to be excited.

"Perhaps you should watch the road," Kyle said.

"What's this business that your father had to stay behind to tend to?" Gerald asked Butters.

"Oh, it's just Eric causing a fuss," Butters said. "He's all worked up about the Confederacy, trying to start a rally. My father says he's gonna get it once the Union sends their overseer in -– I guess that's you!"

"My God," Sheila said. "Does this Eric person know that we're arriving today?"

"That would be quite a welcome party," Ike said. "Will there be burning torches?"

"Eric won't bother you, I promise," Butters said. "He tries to start rallies all the time -– even before the war, he was always complaining about something, but nobody listens to him. My dad'll usually just throw him in the lockup for the night, and he'll go crawling back to the boarding house in the morning."

"So your father is a Union supporter?" Gerald asked.

"Well," Butters said. "He thinks they'll win the war. We don't have a lot to do with the federals, sir. Maybe we will now, um, now you're here. My dad hopes so, anyway. He's been wanting more order."

Kyle had heard a lot about the war from Rodney, but it had never felt real to him. No matter what sort of draft measures were adopted, Kyle would never qualify for the army. He had delicacies, mental and physical, and had been exempt from sport at Trinity. Now they would be living in disputed territory, and though the war was being fought elsewhere its realities felt much closer.

They pulled into town in the early evening, and Kyle was bent at the waist from hunger and dread, clutching his stomach. The settlement at the foot of Pike's Peak was as unimpressive as he'd feared, a single dirt-paved main street lined by thirty-odd buildings, ranches dotted along the hills. The Broflovskis were to be given a house in town, and as they pulled up to it Butters explained that it had been a brothel, and that his father had only recently cleared it out.

"But don't worry," Butters said. "We got the younger girls married off good. I got one myself!" He held up his hand to show them his wedding ring. "Her name's Millie and she's a real good woman, since she's been saved now and all. By Jesus, I mean, not by me. Are ya'll Methodists or what?"

"Methodists, yes," Gerald said tightly. They'd had to pretend so that Kyle could get into Trinity, which was supposed to be a good thing for the whole family, the pathway that would lead him toward Harvard or Yale and onward to a real fortune. Kyle's parents had come over from Poland in the forties, when things there began to grow politically uncertain. His father had done well in America as a lawyer, and they'd found a supportive community of other Jewish immigrants in New York, but there were no schools like Trinity for Jews, so they stretched the truth on Kyle's application, and Kyle was expected to live the lie at school. They would have to lie here, too, since they would already be seen as suspicious outsiders. There would be no welcoming community of fellow Jewish families to greet them.

The only thing that greeted them at their new home was the stench of whiskey and a rat that scurried into the darkness behind the bar. Butters dashed around the front room lighting lamps, trying to make the place look respectable, but it was a losing battle. He needn't have told them it was once a brothel; this was exactly how Kyle would have envisioned one. Making his way toward the stairs with his bags, he had to stop to throw up.

"Bubbeh!" his mother cried, rushing to him.

"Oh, gosh," Butters said. "I hope you're okay?"

"He's fine," Gerald said. "Go and tell your father I'd like to meet with him this evening, please."

"Sure, well – ya'll are invited to dinner!" Butters said. "My mom's been cooking all day."

"Fine," Gerald said. "We'll be there."

"Seven o'clock," Butters said, waving as he backed toward the door. "It's the big house at the end of the road, the yellow one, you can't miss it!"

"God," Ike said when Butters was gone, Sheila dabbing at Kyle's sweaty forehead with her already damp handkerchief. "Do we really have to _stay_ here?"

"Quiet!" Sheila said. "Your brother is ill!"

"He ought to be! He's the reason we're damned to hell!"

"Just leave me here to die alone," Kyle said, and he fell into his mother's arms to sob.

He was brought upstairs, to a dusty room with a single bed and mattress that he didn't trust. His mother did her best to make the room cozier, covering the mattress with clean sheets and putting up the curtains they'd brought from his room at home, but Kyle still felt as if he had arrived in his prison cell. He fell onto the bed and stayed motionless when his mother sat beside him to rake his wilted curls from his forehead.

"You're just overtired," she said, her voice trembling. "We'll have a nice, home cooked meal with those people tonight—"

"Mother, I will _not_. I can't bear another minute of that imbecile. Bragging about being married to a whore? He was completely sincere!"

"Shh, don't be cruel. We knew people here would be simple. At least he wasn't hideous looking. And apparently he's the town buffoon, he all but said so himself. I'm sure there's someone here you can befriend. The population is almost two hundred, after all."

"Two hundred," Kyle said miserably, rolling onto his side. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't complain. It's you who've been brought here unfairly, thanks to me. Ike is right."

"Ike is an angry little boy, and you'll never convince me that man didn't take advantage of you." His mother stood with a huff and went to the window. Kyle was afraid to hear more, his heart pounding. They had not discussed Rodney explicitly, and she wasn't wrong to suspect that the whole thing had not been Kyle's idea. "I'm all too glad to get you away from that world if that's how things were there."

"But how could I be happy here?" Kyle asked.

"I don't know, bubbeh." She was at the window, looking out at the main road. "We'll just have to figure that out, all of us."

His parents left for dinner at quarter till seven, and Kyle was surprised when Ike agreed to join them. Kyle feigned illness to get out of it, and his mother allowed the lie, selling it to his father. Kyle was sorry that he had stayed almost as soon as they were gone. He sat up in bed, blinking around the room, his eyes stinging, face puffy. It was high summer and dusk was just beginning to fall outside, the sky still warm and blue, shaded purplish with the oncoming night. His mother had opened the window to reduce the room's stuffiness, and the curtains were moving with a slight breeze. Outside, the street was eerily quiet, and the air through the window was tinted with something metallic. Gold, Kyle thought, and he slid out of bed with a snort at the thought that people in this town probably thought they could smell it, that it intoxicated them with the false promise of an easy fortune.

He spent some time setting up his room, unpacking his clothes and his books, searching the pages for stray notes from Rodney that he'd failed to burn. The thought that Rodney was in prison in New York, awaiting trial for sodomy, was something Kyle had hardly had time to process. Now, alone in a retired brothel, the fact that Rodney might be imprisoned for ten years penetrated the haze of his melancholy at last. Kyle wasn't sad about it, exactly; Rodney had forced him at least twice. He had also doted on Kyle, read to him and cuddled him, and sometimes that was worse, or at least more insulting, than being held down and spanked.

The more Kyle allowed himself to think about it, the closer the walls seemed to come, until he felt like there was no air left in the room. He went to the window and put his head out to try to get his breath, but the sight of the looming mountain made him dizzy, and he had to fling himself back into the room. He stumbled through it, tripping over unsorted books, and went out into the hallway, where the reek of old perfume was less pervasive. Still, the whole building felt sinister, lamps throwing flickering shadows down on the first floor. Kyle hurried down the stairs, feeling his throat tighten as if there were hands around it. He needed to be elsewhere, to get away somehow, and pushing out onto the empty street was only a small relief. He didn't want to be seen from the windows of the other houses, where 'simple' people were sitting down to dinner.

He walked in the direction opposite the large yellow house at the end of the road, which sat like a kind of mockery of a governor's mansion, light spilling out from large windows onto the front yard. The sun continued to sink as Kyle made his way off the main road, toward a meadow he saw in the distance, wide and welcoming, spilling into the foothills. Yes: if he could simply reach that meadow he would be able to breathe.

The sky was blazing with the sunset by the time he arrived there, and he sunk down to his knees amid the wildflowers, hungry and exhausted. It was dangerous for him to go without eating, and his mother had made him promise to at least have a snack. There was nothing but the nuts and candies they'd brought for the train trip, and Kyle didn't want them, because they were a reminder of the shops in New York that they'd come from, the kinds of goods they would never find here. He pulled his knees to his chest and surveyed the meadow, grasses and flowers tickled by a cool breeze that came down from the mountain. Kyle had his back to it, but there were others in the distance: even outdoors, half a mile from the settlement, he was boxed in.

The thoughts that had driven him from his new home did not take long to catch up to him, and he wondered if he would suffer with them in this godforsaken wilderness until he required a straight-jacket to stop him from ripping his hair out in handfuls. He folded his arms over his knees and put his head down, pinching his eyes shut tightly. He'd actually allowed himself to believe that Rodney's grooming would lead to opportunity, that it was about more than what went on in Rodney's bedroom after curfew. Kyle been so desperate to see it all as some kind of acknowledgement that he was special, that he had a certain destiny. Now he was certain that Rodney had simply selected the boy who would be the easiest to lead astray: Kyle with his secret history, his lack of friends, his flaming hair that earned him a dozen cruel nicknames before he'd even been to his first lesson. Kyle had been an outsider, vulnerable to suggestion, easy to tame. Hating Rodney now, Kyle hoped he would be condemned to the maximum sentence for his crimes and perish pathetically in prison. It hurt to hate him at last, because he had worked so hard to convince himself that he didn't, once.

He heard a dog barking and looked up with alarm to see one rushing into the meadow, large and brown with pointed ears. The dog seemed unfriendly and his barking was clearly a threat. Kyle scrambled to his feet in a panic, not sure what the protocol for dog attacks was. If he were to run, especially fatigued like this, the dog would catch him and pounce, interpreting his flight as a confirmation that he was prey. Kyle stood there frozen, bracing himself and holding his hands up in surrender when the dog was upon him, smelling like mud and rabid breath.

"Spark – Sparky!"

The dog had stopped barking and was sniffing Kyle frantically, trying to get between his legs. Kyle was afraid to push it away and only marginally glad to see a man jogging toward him to retrieve it. The man had a rifle and was wearing a wide-brimmed hat like the one Butters had, unfashionable and old-looking, though the man himself looked more like a boy as he came closer, roughly Kyle's age.

"Sparky!" he said, slapping his thigh, and the dog tore away from Kyle, rushing his owner with wild glee. "Sorry," the man said, and he tipped his hat back to show Kyle more of his face. It was an instant relief: he was sweet-looking, bright eyed, and seemed to have all of his teeth. "I hope he didn't scare you."

"No – yes." Kyle wasn't sure what the protocol here was, either. He'd left his jacket and hat back at the house, and he was wearing a half-untucked shirt that needed changing. "It's alright, though," he said, not wanting this man to think he was angry. "He only wanted to smell me, I think."

"Yeah, that's what he usually wants," the man said. He was smiling at Kyle, petting the dog absently as it frisked about. "He's not much of an attack dog, or a hunting dog, but I'm not much of a hunter. Where'd you come from?"

"Ah – from there," Kyle said, feeling stupid when he gestured to the town. "I've just moved to town, um. Kyle Broflovski," he said, too loudly, and he threw his hand out.

"Oh, hey." They shook. "I'm Stan. Marsh. Did you come with the judge?"

"Yes," Kyle said. He was still shaking Stan's hand, or Stan was still shaking his. "He's my father."

Stan let go first, nodding. "I heard he was arriving today. That's good. We need a Union judge around here. You're from New York?"

"That's right." Kyle was alarmed by the idea that people here would have been expecting him, and he wondered if he was more or less what Stan had envisioned. Probably more in the sense of his hair and nose and ridiculous lonely wanderings in the meadow, less in other areas.

"Are you alright?" Stan asked.

"I don't know," Kyle said. He was shaken from the approach of the dog, unprepared to have a conversation but not sorry to have company. "I'm – I haven't felt well, the journey was long."

"Here," Stan said. He put the gun down in the grass and dug into a pack that was slung over his right shoulder. He came up with a canteen and handed it to Kyle. "It's water," he said. "From this one spring I go to when I hunt here – I think it's got healing powers. Well. That sounds stupid, but. You want to sit down?"

Kyle did, and he was embarrassed and glad when Stan sat beside him, the dog calming instantly and flopping down to rest its head on its paws. The water was good, clean and cool, faintly metallic like the air. Stan pulled some dried fruit from his bag, and though the apple slices looked like severed ears, Kyle was glad for them and ate ten.

"Shit, that would be a long ride," Stan said. "All the way from New York. How come your dad wanted a judgeship here?"

"Just – it's a long story," Kyle said, perhaps rudely. "How long has your family been here?"

"About three years," Stan said. "Me and my dad came from Oklahoma after my mom died and my sister got married."

"Oh. I'm sorry – about your mother."

"Yeah, I'm still—" Stan said, and he looked down at the blade of wheat grass he was picking at. "Thanks, I mean. You got any siblings?"

"Yes, a brother, and I think he'd like to disown me most of the time," Kyle said. "He's adopted. I think his parents were French smugglers. Or – he thinks that. He thinks it means he's much tougher than me. Anyway, he's thirteen," Kyle mumbled, embarrassed. Stan was grinning, for some reason. "What?" Kyle said, and he touched his lips, afraid he had some dried apple stuck there.

"Nothing," Stan said, and he shrugged. "It's just good to meet someone new, hear some new stories. Past three years all I've seen is the same sorry faces every day."

"The settlement is drying up?" Kyle said, and then he felt badly, because maybe that was insulting. "I mean to say – the gold?"

"Well, not really," Stan said. "It's just down to real mining now, breaking rock. I don't know if I'm cut out for it, but I'm trying. I'm up in the mountains six days a week, till about this time a day, when I try to get us something to eat. My dad – he ain't well."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Kyle said. "He's ill?"

"Sorta. Heartbroken, I guess. He drinks."

"Oh." Kyle felt himself flushing, and he looked down at his lap to hide it. "Sorry, I'm – interrupting your hunting, I guess."

"It's alright. I got a deer three days ago. I hate shooting them, you know?"

"I – imagine it would be awful." Kyle was still flushed, but he looked up to meet Stan's eyes. They were pretty, like something unearthed in a mountain, jewel-toned, dark blue. "I've never shot anything," Kyle said.

"Oh yeah? I thought people up north hunted foxes or something. Your dad hunt?"

"Um, no, I don't think so."

"Then, well. How are ya'll going to eat?"

"Oh, God," Kyle said, and he put his hands over his face. "I don't know. I'm sorry. I must seem insane to you – I hardly know what I'm doing here. They've put us up in this horrible old whore house, and my family is eating dinner with that Sheriff, his son picked us up at the station—"

"Butters?" Stan said. "Yeah, we all said it was a bad idea, sending him. He's okay, though, just kinda dim."

"Yes, well – no, he was fine, it's me, I'm not very – I'm just tired, I think. Sorry, I'm rambling."

"Here," Stan said, offering the canteen, and Kyle drank more water.

"I have some health conditions," Kyle said, and he wanted to take it back, feeling completely idiotic now. Stan raised his eyebrows.

"Shit, like what?"

"Um, never mind." Kyle shook his head. "Tell me, is there culture here? What do people do for – recreation?"

"Well, since they shut down the whorehouse," Stan said, and he grinned at Kyle's expression. "No, I'm kidding. Well, not really, the whores were a big draw, but now Sheriff Stotch has made them all into little church mice. I usually go to the saloon after this here, when the others come down the mountain. You want to come with me? I could introduce you around."

"I don't know if I'm prepared for that at the moment," Kyle said. "But – thank you, I'd like that." He was actually terrified at the prospect, but he supposed he'd have to face it sooner or later. "Tomorrow, though, maybe?"

"Sure," Stan said. "We play cards and drink, I guess that's our culture. Sometimes somebody will play some decent music. There's a piano at your place, somewhere under a sheet. I bet you can play."

"I can," Kyle said, embarrassed, though it was also oddly charming to be guessed at correctly.

"Liane was teaching me," Stan said. "She was the owner of the whorehouse before Stotch ran her off. She's up in Denver now, so I guess I can forget about piano lessons. Wish she would have took her goddamn son with her."

"I could give you lessons," Kyle said.

"You serious?" Stan asked.

"Well, yes." Kyle had assumed that was the answer he'd been fishing for. "I have to do something useful, after all. I suppose there's no school here?"

"Nah, nothing like that," Stan said.

"Are you – educated?"

Stan laughed, and Kyle was flustered, not sure if he was being made fun of. Maybe this meeting would become a hilarious story for Stan's friends at the saloon.

"I went to school in Oklahoma," Stan said. "I know how to read – how to write, even."

"I didn't mean—"

"I know, I'm just teasing. You went to some big school in New York, I bet?"

"Well, 'big,' I don't know if that's the right word for it," Kyle said, mumbling. "It was – prestigious, I guess. But awful in the end."

"Yeah?" Stan looked genuinely concerned about this when Kyle glanced up at him. Or maybe Kyle just wanted him to be.

"They're just very snotty," Kyle said. "And I'm Jewish." He hadn't meant to admit that. "But they didn't know it. And frankly I'd prefer it if you didn't tell anyone. We want to fit in here."

"I won't tell," Stan said. "I've never known a Jewish person before. I have this book about religions of the Orient that my mom gave me. It's real interesting. Not that Jewish people are from the Orient, exactly," he said, sounding uncertain.

"No, we're from Poland." Kyle rubbed his hands over his face, wishing he could get himself to shut up. "My parents were, anyway. Really – don't let me keep you here if you have work to do."

"My work's done for the day," Stan said. "And you still look a little white. Here, drink." He held up the canteen and grinned when Kyle sighed, taking it.

"Why do you think this spring water has healing qualities?" Kyle asked, eying the canteen after he'd drunk from it.

"I've sort of got a head for that stuff," Stan said.

"Oh. Well, wait. What stuff?"

"Legends and mysteries and stuff like that. That's why I like reading about them Oriental religions. They got all kinds of secrets, this whole invisible universe. Nothing against Jesus, but he's mostly got rules."

"Our God mostly has rules, too," Kyle said. "My parents aren't very strict about them, though. We don't even keep kosher."

"What's that?"

"Rules for eating," Kyle said. "I've got all sorts of those already, even without getting religion involved."

"Yeah?" Stan seemed truly interested. The dog had fallen asleep.

"I have a condition," Kyle said. "To do with my blood. I have to eat – just so. Thank you for the apples."

"Do you want more?" Stan asked, going for his bag.

"No, I'm fine." Kyle sighed and looked up the sky, where unfamiliar stars were beginning to appear. "I suppose we should head back to town."

"Yep," Stan said. He stood and the dog leapt up, instantly energetic. Kyle took Stan's hand when he offered it. "I've got to get home and make dinner," Stan said. "Then I'll be at the bar – sure you don't want to come?"

"Tomorrow," Kyle said, and Stan smiled. "What?"

"Nothing," he said. "I'm just glad I'll get to introduce them to someone new. They'll be real put out that I met you first, I can't wait. Some of 'em will stare at you like you're a circus animal, but they won't mean nothing by it, they're just mountain people."

"Mountain people." Kyle shuddered. "Well, just don't forget not to mention I'm Jewish. God, I suppose we'll have to go to church services here, to fit in." He scowled, and Stan laughed.

"Me and my dad don't go," he said. "Reverend Donovan's always getting after us like we should. I believe in God and Jesus and all that, but I think it might be a little more complicated than the Reverend knows."

"How so?" Kyle asked. They had left the meadow, and Kyle slowed his steps, not wanting to return to that dark, quiet house.

"You believe in spirits, things like that?" Stan asked.

"Uh," Kyle said. "No, not really."

"I guess it sounds dumb," Stan said, looking down at the dog.

"Well, no," Kyle said. "I mean, I believe people have souls." He thought of Rodney, who had studied in Paris with famous atheists. He'd said 'that's alright, you're still a baby' when Kyle confessed that he wasn't comfortable forgetting about God altogether. Kyle had wanted to ask how his status as a baby made him a fit receptacle for Rodney's come. "And if we have souls," Kyle said, noticing that Stan had gone quiet, as if his feelings were hurt, "I suppose it's not too far off to believe that their spirits might be – around. It's interesting to think about, anyway."

"I think it's real interesting," Stan said, his eyes lighting again. "I could tell you some stories about things that have happened around here. About spirits."

"I'd like to hear them," Kyle said, though it was the sort of talk he usually detested. Mostly he wanted to see Stan again, to sit with him in that meadow and be irresponsibly frank while eating dried fruit.

"It won't scare you?" Stan asked, and he grinned when Kyle gave him an insulted look.

"I doubt it," Kyle said. "But it would be appropriate, I guess. To learn some local legends."

"Appropriate," Stan said, and he knocked his elbow against Kyle's arm. "Hey, look. I'm glad we met. You should tell me your local legends, too. I mean, stuff about New York."

"If you'd like," Kyle said, flattered.

It was dark by the time they reached the main road, and Kyle looked back at where they'd had been. The meadow was completely hidden by nightfall, too far to be illuminated by the light thrown off by the town. The street was busier than it had been during the dinner hour, and the stares of passerby unnerved Kyle.

"Sorry," he said when he walked close enough to Stan to bump their shoulders together.

"For what?" Stan asked.

"Oh – nothing."

"Our ranch is up that way," Stan said, pointing. "Past the yellow house, about a mile and a half down the road that runs by the stream. It says Marsh on the mailbox. That's my last name. Did I tell you that?"

"You did," Kyle said. They had come to the front stairs of the former brothel, and people on the porches of the houses across the street were staring. "This makes me so damn conspicuous," Kyle said, running his hand through his hair. "City or country, everywhere I go."

"It's good, though," Stan said. Kyle wasn't sure why he was lingering, staring up at Kyle as he took the first few steps. "Having someone around who doesn't look like everyone else."

"Good for who?" Kyle asked, though he was flattered again, flushing. "Not for me."

"They'll be nice to you."

"Oh? Why?"

"'Cause you're my friend," Stan said, and he put his hand out. "Right?"

"You've been so kind to me," Kyle said, shaking Stan's hand. "I really needed it, thank you."

"Like I said," Stan said, and he adjusted his hat. "It's good to talk to someone new. Come to the Dark Horse tomorrow at eight." He pointed to a saloon down the road that was already growing noisy, patrons laughing on the front steps and rowdy piano music playing inside. "I'll be there, probably at one of the card tables."

"Alright," Kyle said. "Or, wait. Maybe you could stop here and pick me up on your way? It's just that I don't normally walk into saloons. I wouldn't know how to do it."

"It ain't that hard, but yeah, I'll come and get you. C'mon, Spark!" Stan backed away, waving. "Have a pleasant evening," he said, and he bowed a little. Kyle watched him go, wondering if what had just transpired had been the strangest hour of his life. It was the most unexpectedly enjoyable hour he'd spent in a long time, without doubt.

Kyle had trouble sleeping, woken at times by unfamiliar creaks and the sounds from the street that leaked in past the closed window. He was accustomed to the relatively constant noise of the city, but here things would go quiet for hours only to be pierced suddenly by drunken laughter from down the road. Each time he woke feeling uneasy, envisioning horrible scenes of sexual debauchery that had taken place in this room over the years, he forced himself to think of Stan, and of how calm he'd felt in the meadow when they sat together sharing food and water. And talking – really talking, in a way that Kyle hadn't spoken to anyone in years, possibly ever. They'd talked about souls and everything. He smiled in the dark, remembering this, and the way Stan's eyes were deep blue and lively like an uncharted sea.

He knew it was trouble, thinking like this, the way he had fantasized about a few of his classmates at Trinity. In his imagination they were so much kinder than Rodney, unexperienced like Kyle and patient with him, real allies. In reality they mostly just made jokes about his hair and the rumors that he was getting buggered by the Sciences professor. He was afraid, already, that he would spoil this miraculous new friendship with his unnatural desires. They had spoiled so much already, and by the time he rose from his bed in the morning he'd resolved to keep them tightly locked up.

"It's looking better already, don't you think?" his mother said when he came downstairs. She had cleaned the cobwebs from the corners of the main room, pushed four tables together and covered them with one of their nicest tablecloths, and was currently scrubbing down the bar. She'd come from poverty and was no stranger to hard work, but Kyle had never seen this side of her personally, and the kerchief she'd tied over her mound of hair was unnerving. "I chased that rat out," she said. "The Stotches were kind enough to loan us some traps. Did you see the piano?"

"Yes," Kyle said. He walked to it and lifted the cover from the keys, touching one lightly. His mother seemed to have already rid the instrument of dust and polished it. "Did you even sleep?" Kyle asked.

"A little," she said, still scrubbing the bar. "How about you? I hope you didn't sleep the whole time we were at dinner. You know, it's almost noon, Kyle."

"Is it?" he muttered, and he sat at the piano bench. "No, I didn't sleep the whole time. How was dinner?"

"Eh, you know, they tried. I didn't care for that woman's cooking, but we were all polite. The conversation was a bit dull, too, but I might actually like that little fool Butters. He's got a sort of sweet disposition. The poor thing he's married to, ach, but he's a little like Don Quixote, so maybe it's perfect. I wish Ike would have waited for you before he went out walking this morning. He's off exploring the town."

"Hmm," Kyle said, annoyed by that, and by everything Ike did lately. "Where's father?"

"At work." She looked up from her cleaning, slightly breathless from the effort. "He's got an office at the courthouse, just down the street. You should start thinking about what you're going to do while you're here. I know the schools we'd, ah, hoped for are off the table now, but you're so smart, Kyle, you shouldn't let your studies fall by the wayside."

"Mother, please," Kyle said, and he turned to the piano, spreading his fingers over the keys. "All schools are out of the question, and I don't think this town even has a library. I might give piano lessons, actually."

"Well, there's an idea! Do you really think people here would want them, though?"

"One would, at least," Kyle said, quietly.

He spent the rest of the day sprucing up his room, mostly moping and taking breaks to collapse onto the bed in a dramatic fashion that no one witnessed. He was increasingly nervous about how he would be received at a saloon, even with Stan at his side, and as the sun went down he started to worry that he'd hallucinated the pretty boy who'd rescued him in the meadow the night before. It just wasn't the sort of thing that happened to Kyle: people weren't often moved to rescue him.

But at eight o'clock, when Kyle was picking at the piano, consumed by anxiety about what the night would bring, there was a knock on the front door. Kyle hurried to answer it but Ike got there first, and Kyle shouldered him aside when he saw that it was Stan.

"Who are you?" Ike asked.

"This is my friend," Kyle said, and he shoved Ike away more pointedly. "Go and tell mother that I'm going out for a bit."

"How'd you make a friend?" Ike asked, eying Stan. He was dressed more finely than he had been the day before, though there were patches on the elbows of his brown jacket. Kyle wanted to tell him he shouldn't bother when he put his hand out for Ike to shake.

"Stan Marsh," he said.

"Ike Broflovski," said Ike, his tone seeming to imply that Stan should feel lucky to hear this name uttered in his presence. "What do you want with Kyle?"

"Uh," Stan said, glancing at Kyle with confusion.

"Ignore this idiot," Kyle said, and Ike finally relented, trotting off to tell on him. "Should I wear a hat?" Kyle asked. He had a relatively stylish bowler that he'd left sitting on the piano, but he hadn't seen anyone here wearing one like it, aside from his father.

"If you want," Stan said. "This place ain't – formal, or nothing."

"No, I know, but it's because it's the opposite of formal that I don't really know how to dress for it, I mean, certainly there are conventions, even if they're casual—" Kyle heard himself rambling and stopped. "Sorry, I. Thanks for coming. How was, um, your day?"

"Same as ever," Stan said. "Are we going, or should I come in?"

"God, no, don't, my mother will intercept you – I'll just grab my hat. Unless you don't think I should wear it?"

"Do whatever you want, man."

"Right." Kyle bolted for the hat, still feeling uncertain about it. He kept a careful watch on Stan's expression as he put it on. Stan didn't seem shocked by it. "Do people dress like this here?" Kyle asked, looking down at himself. He was wearing his dark gray slacks and one of his father's old jackets from Poland over a plain shirt, no vest. He'd thought he looked suitably rustic, but in the presence of Stan's more authentic ensemble he was sure that he didn't.

"You look fine," Stan said. "Really, hey. My friends are just a bunch of beer swilling miners with dirt under their nails."

"That's intimidating to some people," Kyle said as he followed Stan out into the night, glad that there had been no interlude with his parents. "I can't really drink," Kyle said as they walked toward the Dark Horse, Kyle's heartbeat slamming.

"On account of your health?"

"No, well, sort of, but I just never learned how. Other boys drank at school, secretly, but I only ever had –" He thought of Rodney's decanter and felt so queasy that for a moment he thought he'd lose his dinner. "Wine."

"We don't drink wine, but I bet it's not that different. Here we go." Stan held the swinging saloon door open for Kyle, and he thought this was probably not the way to enter a place like this: like a lady who expected to have doors opened for her.

The place was so smoky that he immediately coughed. He'd been afraid that everyone would go silent, turn and stare when he entered, but the place was too lively to notice him. Someone was playing a piano that was about the size of the one at Kyle's house, and there were a few women drinking and laughing along with the men, most of the tables littered with cards and money. The women's fashions were dated, lace on every bust.

"Here we go," Stan said, putting a hand at the small of Kyle's back to guide him toward a table in the front left, by the window, where a few of the men gathered at a round table seemed to have actually noticed their entrance. There was a fat one who was smoking a cigar, a mean-eyed kid with pointy cheekbones, a greasy vagabond sort who was smirking at Kyle for some reason, and Butters, who was waving them over and looking as hapless as he had at the station.

"So this is your fancy new lover, Stanley?" the fat one said as they came to the table, and Kyle felt like he'd been punched in the gut. Somehow he'd known that they would instantly sniff him out. He wondered if he should run.

"Fellas," Stan said, seemingly unperturbed. "This is Kyle, he's just moved to town."

"With that Union spy?" the fat one said, snarling.

"You've met Butters," Stan said, ignoring the fat man, who seemed to be Stan's age and actually more of a fat boy. "And this is Kenny, poorest dirt in town. Craig, he's a horse's ass, and that fat piece of shit is Cartman."

"Really charming, Marsh," Craig said.

"Yeah, keep calling it fat," Cartman said. "It's gonna feel a lot more like muscle when I'm pounding my fists into your face."

Kyle was terrified, but Stan just snorted with laughter and pulled out a chair for him, as if everyone spoke to their friends this way. He supposed some of the boys at Trinity had berated each other in a friendly manner, but Kyle had never experienced it himself. When they'd made threats against him they were real.

"Is he rich?" Kenny asked. He was missing his left canine tooth and looked as if he lived in a hole in the ground and had recently crawled out of it for the occasion. There was indeed black dirt under his fingernails.

"He's not deaf," Stan said, taking the seat beside Kyle. The table was small and Kyle was glad to sit close to him, his anxiety peaking. "You can ask him yourself."

"Are you rich?" Kenny asked.

"Of course he is," Cartman said before Kyle could decide how to answer; they had been rich, but Kyle's misdeeds had cost his father a much higher salary than the one he would make here. "All these Union people are just trying to protect their own money while they rob everyone else."

"Can we not talk about the goddamn Union?" Stan said. "Save it for your protests."

"I would, Stanley, but none of you piss lickers attends them. Are you sure he's not deaf? Hello?" Cartman snapped his fingers in front of Kyle's face. "Do you speak?"

"I will if you'd stop for a moment," Kyle said.

"Cartman is overly accustomed to conversing with himself," Craig said. "Clyde told me you're from New York?"

"Who's Clyde?" Kyle asked, alarmed.

"One of our friends," Stan said. "He upstairs or what?"

"Yes," Craig said. "I suppose he's got his prick in Bebe by now, so he should be down in approximately two minutes."

"Oh, geez," Butters said. "I hope she ain't charging him."

"No, I'm sure she's just fallen in love with him at last," Craig said.

"See?" Cartman said, yanking his cigar from his lips and gesturing to Craig. "What did I tell you? Shut down the honest business of someone who's only trying to do this town a favor by organizing the whores into a central location, and you don't stop the actual whoring, you only needlessly disperse it. I suppose your Union girl here is enjoying living in my fucking house, though." Cartman glared at Kyle.

"Excuse me?" Kyle said. "You lived in the brothel?"

"His mother was the senior whore," Craig said.

"Hey, now!" Butters said, cringing. Cartman threw his cigar down.

"You shut your goddamn mouth about my mother!" he said, the volume of his voice attracting the attention of the room, but only briefly when the crowd saw that Cartman had not flipped the table or thrown a punch. Craig shrugged.

"Well, she was," he said.

"She was retired, Craig, okay?"

"How's your mom doing up in Denver?" Stan asked.

"She's pouring whiskey at an inferior establishment," Cartman said. "I'm going up to live with her as soon as she can make enough money for a room. I had my own room at the Golden Nugget," he said, snarling at Kyle again.

"The Golden Nugget was what they called the brothel," Stan said, and Kyle nodded, grateful for his willingness to translate this conversation.

"How much did you charge the johns who ended up in your room by mistake?" Kenny asked, and he ducked away when Cartman swiped at him.

"Well, I think it's real good we're cleaning up the town," Butters said. "And I sure am happy that your father's here to help, Kyle."

"Butters, please," Cartman said. "You're just glad your father bought you a wife."

"He did not buy her, Eric, she didn't get one cent!"

"Ah, God, here he comes," Craig muttered, looking toward the stairs that led up to the second floor of the establishment. "Doing up his belt in public like a true gentleman."

The man who was doing so was descending the stairs, red-faced, his hat pushed back as if a strong wind had nearly blown it off.

"That's Clyde," Stan said. "The reverend's son."

"He's not especially devout," Craig said.

"Goddamn," Clyde said when he came to the table. He was the only one beside Stan who Kyle would call attractive, but his eyes were nowhere near as nice. Clyde's were deep brown and slightly cow-like. "I need a smoke. Any of ya'll got one for me?" He looked at Kyle. "Who the hell's that?" he asked.

"Judge's son," Craig said. "I told you Stan was bringing someone. Do you listen to anything I say?"

"Oh, shit." Clyde threw his hand out for Kyle to shake. "Clyde Donovan, good to meet you."

"Is Bebe inflating her prices to cover the room she's got here?" Cartman asked before Kyle could give Clyde his name. "My mother never charged as much as this shithole."

"Shit," Clyde said, and he accepted a cigarette when Stan offered one, pulling a chair over to squeeze in between him and Cartman. "I'd buy her a whole damn house if she'd just marry me."

"She turned you down again?" Craig said.

"Well, I didn't ask again, Craig, I ain't a fool."

Craig rolled his eyes at that. Kyle sort of liked him, and something about the way he crossed his wrists on the table made Kyle wonder if they shared the same unnatural propensities.

"Bebe's too smart to marry your dumb ass," Kenny said, craning his neck to peer at the second floor landing, which looked down over the saloon. There was a strikingly pretty blond woman leaning on the banister, smoking a cigarette and gazing at their table. Kenny whistled and waved to her. She looked away, dragging on the cigarette.

"Like you can afford top shelf snatch," Cartman said. "You'd have to take out a loan to fuck a goat."

"Everybody shut up," Clyde said. "Is she looking at me?"

"She's coming this way!" Butters said, and he bounced a little, as if this was exciting for him, too.

"About time," Stan said. "We still don't have drinks."

"Evening, boys," Bebe said when she arrived. Her hairdo was half undone in a way that looked both fetchingly intentional and like the aftereffect of some passionate sex. The low cut of her dress made Kyle nervous, and he averted his eyes. "What can I get for you?" she asked, laying a hand on Clyde's shoulder. He'd gone very red and was looking at his hands, elbows on the table.

"The usual for me," Stan said. "Kyle, um." He looked at Kyle uncertainly, then turned back to Bebe. "Have you got wine?"

"No – that's fine!" Kyle said while Kenny, Craig and Cartman laughed hard at that. "I'll just – you can bring me whatever Stan's having."

"You sure, red?" Bebe asked. She reached over to touch Kyle's curls, and he struggled not to flinch away. "I could probably dig up some wine if I went down to the basement and poked around."

"I'm fine with whiskey," Kyle said, though he'd only ever smelled it. As far as he could remember, it smelled like something that would melt steel.

"My old roommate had hair like yours," Bebe said, still toying with Kyle's curls. He was hot all across his chest, a blush creeping up onto his neck. Bebe and Clyde both smelled like Rodney's sheets had after Kyle had been in them. "Hers wasn't quite this pretty, though. You heard from Gary?" she asked, looking to Stan.

"He wrote me once, a few weeks after the wedding," Stan said. "Uh, I guess Red's pregnant already."

"Hm," Bebe said, frowning.

"What the hell was her real name, anyway?" Craig asked.

"Rebecca," Bebe said, and she finally released Kyle's hair. "Anyway, I'll get your drinks. Clyde, honey?" She slid both hands onto his shoulders and leaned down slightly, until Kyle feared her breasts would spill out. "You want anything?"

"Uh," Clyde said, bringing his cigarette to his lips with a shaking hand. "Yeah, bourbon."

"Damn, son," Kenny said when Bebe left to get their drinks. He was looking at Clyde, smirking again.

"Shut up," Clyde muttered.

"Well, now that we're through with the 'Clyde publicly humiliates himself' portion of the evening," Cartman said, "On to business. Union boy, I hope you know your father's not welcome here."

"You can call me Kyle, thank you," Kyle said, trying to make his eyes hard. He'd learned too late at Trinity that deferring to bullies was the worst possible way of dealing with them.

"Cartman, you fuck," Stan said. "If you love the Confederates so much, why don't you go join their army and leave the rest of us in peace?"

"Peace!" Cartman said, leaning forward. "Peace, Stanley? You think that's what some fancy Union judge is going to bring? Ha! You think having the federal government making economic decisions for you is—"

"Goddamn, here we go," Kenny said, and he threw back the rest of his drink.

"You're the son of a whore who's never owned a slave," Craig said, glaring at Cartman. "Quit pretending like the North wants to take your livelihood."

"Yes, I was going to ask," Kyle said. "What exactly do you – do?"

"I am a miner, and that is beside the point," Cartman said.

"Cartman thinks he's gonna find him a magical payload," Stan said, leaning over to say so to Kyle in a conspiring fashion that made Kyle's chest feel lighter. "Then he'll set up a plantation someplace where he can make people work for him for free."

"People!" Cartman said.

"Enough," Clyde said. "Shit, can't we talk about something else? Like – what do _you_ do?" he asked, eying Kyle in a way that made him sit up a little straighter.

"I was a student," Kyle said. "But I've – finished school. I take it you all work in the mine?"

"All of us except Craig," Cartman said. "He's sickly."

"Go to hell," Craig said. "I'll be back to work when it's not so hot."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot," Cartman said. "Cold weather cures TB."

"It's not TB, you shit!" Craig said. Kyle noticed then that Craig did look a little ashen and stooped, his lips cracked, and he leaned a bit closer to Stan, away from Craig.

"Leave him alone," Clyde said. "So what do you _do_ , though?" he asked, turning to Kyle again.

"He's a rich Union princess who sits on feather pillows, reading books," Cartman said. "Didn't you hear him the first time?"

"Here we go," Bebe said, appearing with the drinks before Kyle could respond to that accusation. He was mostly relieved. "Two whiskeys, and a bourbon for my Clyde. Anybody need a refill while I'm here?"

"Yeah, I'll have a double," Kenny said. Bebe gave him a look, mouth quirking.

"You got money for it?" she asked.

"I got credit here, don't I?" Kenny said. "I'm working nights now, grave digging. I get paid Friday."

"Come back and get a drink then, honey," Bebe said.

"Hey, no, you can put him on my tab," Stan said.

"Forget it," Kenny said.

"Mine, then?" Butters said, elbowing him. "C'mon, Ken, let me buy you a drink in exchange for you walkin' me home. You know I don't like walking alone at night. It's a real service you do me, let me pay you for it."

"Whatever you say," Kenny muttered, and he sucked the last drops of whiskey from his glass.

"A double, alright," Bebe said, winking at Butters before she left.

"Butters, you chickenshit," Cartman said, and Kyle was very glad not to resume the discussion of his uselessness. "You're still afraid of the dark?"

"It's not the dark!" Butters said. He glanced around the table. "Ya'll know – ever since Christophe disappeared. I get the creeps, out there alone at night. Thank God I got Millie in my bed now, anyways."

"Jesus Christ, do you hear yourself?" Cartman asked.

"That French bastard passed out drunk in a ditch somewhere and never got up," Craig said. "There's no more to the story."

"I don't know about that," Stan said, and he drank from his whiskey, a full swallow that Kyle monitored watchfully, his eyes on Stan's throat. He reached for his own glass.

"Who's Christophe?" Kyle asked.

"He worked with us," Clyde said. "He did drink a lot, but I never saw him fall in no ditch. I bet Nascha got him."

"Oh, God," Craig said. "Your father would belt you if he heard you say that."

"You gonna tell him?" Clyde asked, and he drank from his bourbon, giving Craig a look. Kyle still hadn't sipped from his drink. Stan had already finished his.

"Who's Nascha?" Kyle asked.

"Well," Stan said, and he scratched at the back of his neck.

"She's a vengeful Apache spirit!" Butters said. "Back in 1820 the Indians slaughtered all the white folks who lived in the valley, because they thought this one feller who was in love with her had made off with her, but he really hadn't, see, 'cause they used to meet up in the mountains—"

"Butters," Cartman said. "You're telling it all wrong."

"Yeah, damn," Stan said, and he took hold of Kyle's elbow, turning toward him. "There's this story, alright, that a while back a guy who'd settled here before they found gold tried to make friends with the Indians and such, and he fell in love with this one Apache girl called Nascha. And his name was Arnold, I think."

"Stan makes half of this horse shit up himself," Craig said.

"I do not!" Stan said, and the way his fingers tightened around Kyle's arm when he raised his voice made Kyle want to swoon against him. He still hadn't taken a sip of whiskey. "I've done research," Stan said, pink-cheeked when he turned back to Kyle.

"Just keep going with the story," Kenny said.

"Yeah, Stan tells it best," Butters said.

"So Nascha loved Arnold, too," Stan said. "But the Apaches don't like white people, so they all told her to forget it. She was real headstrong, though, so she would meet up with Arnold in the mountains at night, in secret."

"To get herself poked," Cartman said. "'Cause white guys have bigger dicks."

"No, they don't," Kenny said.

"Oh?" Cartman snorted. "You'd know?"

Kenny shrugged. "You should, since your mama's seen a dick of every color and creed." He only laughed when Cartman reached over Butters to slap at him in a surprisingly womanly fashion.

"Anyhow," Stan said, loudly. "They didn't get caught or nothing, but one day in winter when they shouldn't have risked meeting up in the mountains, Nascha got lost and ended up freezing to death. Arnold was so distraught and guilty that he went and hung himself. I think – I can't really prove that part, but that's what people say. And I guess I can't say for sure that she froze to death as opposed to, you know, falling off a cliff or getting ate by a bear or something, 'cause they never found her body. And 'cause of that the Apaches got all furious, thinking Arnold had done something evil to her, and they came to town and killed a bunch of people, since Arnold was already dead and they couldn't just take revenge on him. So people say this town is haunted." He smiled like he was proud of this.

"I'll tell you what's haunted," Cartman said. "The goddamn Golden Nugget. Not that any of them ghosts had the balls to bother me, but the girls used to complain about all kinds of weird shit."

"Probably because they were all drunk most of the day," Craig said.

"All's I'm saying," Cartman said, narrowing his eyes at Kyle, "Is that I hope you sleep real well in my old house, because I know of at least two girls who died in them upstairs rooms, trying to have babies. Oh, and the babies died, too, and dead babies are real vengeful spirits, you'd be surprised."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Clyde said.

"It's cause they weren't baptized!" Butters said, eyes wide. "Like the Indians! They're doomed to wander the earth forever! Lost souls!"

"Goddamn," Craig muttered. He glanced over at Kyle's drink. "You going to be needing that?" he asked. "'Cause I could use another drink if these idiots are going to sit here telling ghost stories all night."

"Have you ever seen any evidence of the spirit world?" Kyle asked Stan, not wanting to discuss his fear of taking a swig of whiskey.

"Well, no," Stan said. "But I've heard stuff, when I'm walking alone in the foothills. Like, a woman laughing from higher up in the mountain. Like a mean laugh."

"And since there are no living women in this town, it's impossible that this could simply be someone who was having a modern day fuck," Craig said. "Seriously, man," he said to Kyle. "If you don't want that drink, I'll take it."

"Leave him alone," Stan said. "He's from someplace where you don't just throw it back in one swallow. They got class and stuff, there."

Everyone but Kyle and Stan laughed. Even Butters giggled, his hands pressed to his mouth.

"Well, Marsh, you'd know about throwing it back in one swallow," Cartman said. "In more ways than one." He pumped his fist in front of his mouth, and Kyle went brilliant red when he realized that Cartman was pantomiming fellatio. Stan just shook his head. Kyle took a big drink from his glass, wanting to get it over quickly, like plucking a stray eyebrow hair, and he was able to swallow it but unable to hold down his coughing afterward. Everyone laughed again, and Stan patted his back.

"Shit, ya'll be quiet," Stan said, but he was smiling when Kyle looked up at him with watering eyes. "None of you idiots gulped down your first whiskey without hacking."

"He's much too old to be having his first," Craig said. "Even Butters drinks whiskey."

"Not too much, though," Butters said. "A-and I take it with water."

"Shut up, Butters," Cartman said.

Bebe arrived with Kenny's double and set it down in front of him. She asked if any one else wanted another, and everyone but Kyle and Butters asked for a refill.

"I didn't cough the first time," Kenny said. He finished his drink in two swallows.

"Yeah, but you're a cave demon," Stan said.

"That's true," Kenny said. He smirked at Kyle. "I can confirm Mr. Marsh's story about the Apaches and the settlers," he said. "I was here for that. I've always been here, longer than the Indians, even. I'm the spirit of this here mountain. That's why these meager mortals are all so eager to make sacrifices to me with whiskeys."

"Well," Kyle said, still trying to get his breath and entirely sure he didn't get the joke. Clyde and Cartman burst into laughter.

"God that there was some entertainment in this town other than you drunken assholes," Craig said.

The rest of the night was slightly less confusing, because Kyle knew how to play poker well enough to only lose fifty cents, and after finishing his whiskey and half of another that Stan kept pressing into his hand, he was feeling like he understood a great many things about this place, laughing easily. Clyde and Butters were both getting progressively louder, and Kyle was finding both of them more and more entertaining. Cartman and Craig had both grown morose, though Craig was expressing this more quietly, and Kenny was intent on the game, sweeping coins into his hands.

"Can buy my own drink after all," he said, and he slipped two dimes into Butters' front pocket.

By the time the saloon began to clear out, Kyle felt as if the evening had only begun, but when he tried to get out of his chair he wobbled and almost fell on his ass. Stan caught him, much to the amusement of the others, who were cracking up at how easily Kyle had gotten drunk. Kyle vaulted between being annoyed with the others and glad that Stan was helping him walk.

"You're not so bad off, c'mon," Stan said, his arm around Kyle's back as they pushed through the saloon doors and out into the night. Kyle wasn't the only departing customer who'd had too much, though he was probably the only one who'd met his limit at one and a half drinks.

"They'll think I'm a weakling," Kyle said, wondering if he should extract himself from Stan's steady grip.

"Nah," Stan said. "They liked having someone new to listen to all the old stories, I could tell. What'd you think of 'em?"

"Of, fah- your friends?"

"Yeah. They're goddamn embarrassing, most of the time-"

"No, no. Well, yes, but they weren't nearly as frightening as I'd feared."

"Good," Stan said, and he grinned at Kyle in a way that made him take a misstep. Stan laughed and helped to steady him again. "Shit," he said. "I shouldn't have made you drink from mine after you'd had one."

"But I liked that you did," Kyle said. He heard himself becoming flirtatious and let go of Stan's waist, stumbling away from him. Stan followed, his hands poised in a cautious frame around Kyle, ready to catch him.

"You gonna be alright?" Stan asked when they reached the brothel. Or, no: it was Kyle's new home, and suddenly he was determined to think of that way.

"I'm fine," Kyle said. He leaned on the railing along the short front steps, his head clearing a little as he allowed himself to realize that Stan was leaving now, saying goodnight. "Will - will you be alright? Walking in the dark?"

"Oh, sure. I walk home by myself every night."

"But. That Frenchman, and your ghost."

"She's not my ghost," Stan said. He reached up to straighten Kyle's hat. "And that Frenchmen, well. Plenty of stuff could have happened to him. It was way back in spring, during the thaw."

"But you said, you thought. You said maybe something else? Happened?"

"I don't really think the spirits come after the living," Stan said. He moved closer to Kyle, lowering his voice, though the nearest onlookers were fifty feet down the road, whooping drunkenly. "But I think they can confuse them, sometimes. Like that Apache girl who died on the mountain? Shoot, Apaches don't get lost for nothing, not even in the snow. I think maybe her ancestors were mad at her for going against her tribe, you know? Maybe they made sure she couldn't find her white boyfriend by turning her around." He grinned. "Shit, I sound drunk, too."

"Well, it's really very sad," Kyle said. "If they were in love and so on. I suppose that's hard enough with your relatives who are still living being against it."

"It is sad," Stan said. "And I don't think Nascha's a bad spirit, even if she's the one who sounds all angry when she laughs up there. Why wouldn't she be angry, right? I think the bad ones are down here, in town. They're angry about gettin' murdered over some love affair they weren't having."

"Was it true about people dying in there?" Kyle asked, turning to look at the front windows of his house.

"Who knows?" Stan says. "Cartman lies all the time. But, you know. It was – girls did have babies there. Sometimes."

"Who's Cartman's father?" Kyle asked, frowning, and Stan laughed.

"He says he's a descendant of Zebulon Pike," Stan says. "But, uh. That's widely disputed."

Kyle scoffed, and for a moment he assumed the little smile that lingered on Stan's lips was a sure sign he'd be kissed, but he was only corrupted and drunk, and Stan was already backing away.

"It's good to know you, man," Stan said. "And, hey, um." He walked forward again. "I'm sorry they're so loud. My friends, I mean. I sorta wanted to know more about you, um. To talk, or something, but they're so— here's what I'm thinking," he said, holding both hands up.

"Yes?" Kyle said, still swaying a little.

"I ain't got a lot of money to throw around, and Liane used to give me piano lessons for free, um, sort of, and my thinking was: I could teach you how to hunt, seeing as how the general store here doesn't have no good meat, so you'll probably need to shoot your own, and in exchange you could teach me piano? Maybe?"

Stan was wincing a little, as if he expected Kyle to strike him, or laugh. Kyle wanted to cup his cheek. He clasped his hands behind his back and nodded once, hard.

"Yes," he said, and he put his right hand out for Stan to shake. "It's a deal."

Stan broke into a grin and shook his hand. Kyle was drunk enough to want to hold on for an inappropriate amount of time, but sober enough to know that he should let go.

"Tomorrow, then," Stan said. "Meet me out in that meadow around four o'clock. That's when I quit the mine. They all pick on me, but. They all have – even Cartman lives at the boarding house now, and they got food included in board."

"Four o'clock," Kyle said. "Should I wear anything special?"

"Leave the bowler at home," Stan said. He winked and tipped his chin up a little before turning to go.

Kyle had never been so happy to have his hat insulted.


	2. Chapter 2

Over the next few weeks the details of his new home began to gradually come into focus for Kyle, as if he was making adjustments to a pair of binoculars. At some point the sense of viewing the place from a distance receded, and he allowed himself to accept that he was truly living in this previously unfathomable place, waking every day to the same ornery floorboards and going to the window to see if the morning mist was still lingering over the streets. The town was quiet by the time Kyle woke, the men already up in the mines and the women indoors until the fog lifted and the sun warmed the valley. Kyle hadn't met many women outside of those who hung around the Dark Horse. The only woman he'd been properly introduced to was Butters' little wife, Millie, who so young and clean-looking that Kyle found it hard to believe and very depressing to contemplate that she had once been a prostitute.

Prostitutes, generally, were not what he might have imagined, and he no longer minded living in their former place of business. He liked Bebe, despite her tendency to play with his hair and ask if he was sure he wouldn't prefer wine. She seemed thoughtful and even smart, and Stan had explained that she had been abandoned here by her young husband after the gold rush. Kyle felt that everyone he'd met in South Park had been abandoned or disappointed by life somehow, and he was continuously shocked to find that he actually felt he fit in with these people. Even when they mocked his fussy habits their jokes rarely seemed malicious. Kyle was almost afraid to believe that he could belong anywhere, and especially here, but with every passing day he felt more comfortable and less frightened as he headed to the Dark Horse with Stan.

Most of his cautious optimism about the place was due to Stan's acceptance. They met every weekday evening in the meadow for Kyle's hunting lesson, and more often it was just the two of them wandering about in the foothills until sundown, chattering about nothing in particular and learning the details of each other's pre-South Park lives. Kyle was glad to learn that Stan had enjoyed a mostly happy childhood, despite being tormented by his older sister, whom he did not miss and did not write to. She lived with her husband in St. Louis and had one daughter and one son, as far as Stan knew.

"That's the only thing I regret about her cutting ties with us," he said as he balanced on the stones that lined the creek nearest the meadow, pacing over them while Kyle sat watching, the shotgun in his lap. Sparky was sniffing at some massive tree's roots nearby. "I don't like the idea that I got kin somewhere that I never met," Stan said. "Seems like bad luck, you know?"

"I suppose," Kyle said. He the same way about his Polish relatives, to some extent. It was odd to know they were over there, part of his history, living out their days in circumstances very unlike his own. The few he had met were very alien to him, however, and he'd found their company grating.

"Plus, I like kids," Stan said. "And her husband's a real asshole, the type who'd take a belt to a kid for talking back. My parents never beat us like that. You ever get spanked?" he asked, looking up from the rocks.

"Ah," Kyle said. Not by his parents, but, yes. "No."

"I thought not," Stan said, and the way he smirked made Kyle blush. He looked down at his lap to hide his smile. There was something about turning red in Stan's presence that wasn't embarrassing at all.

Most days Stan would get a rabbit or a turkey, sometimes a deer. He'd repeatedly offered to teach Kyle how to skin and butcher the animals, and Kyle kept finding excuses to put it off. The Broflovskis had been buying meat from the farmers who sold beef and chicken from the general store, cleaned and ready for cooking. It was expensive, and Kyle's mother was very out of practice when it came to seasoning meat. They'd had a housekeeper and a cook in New York, and Sheila pretended not to miss them, determined to be cheerful for the sake of the of the family. Kyle tried not to notice that she seemed to be wearing down already. He knew she missed her society friends, who would never write to her again.

On Saturday mornings, Kyle gave Stan a piano lesson at the house. He told Stan it felt uneven, because Stan took him hunting five days a week, but Stan insisted that he liked the company, anyway, and he had only a few hours a week to spare for piano. He could read music, and Kyle tried to hide his shock about this. He thought Stan had probably noticed, because he smiled at Kyle the way he did whenever Kyle judged him incorrectly. He'd done this when Kyle asked if he'd been a customer at the Golden Nugget before it closed.

"No," Stan had said. They'd been at the piano, Stan depressing one of the keys just enough to make an indent but not a sound. "I, uh." He'd looked over his shoulder to make sure Sheila or Ike hadn't appeared at the foot of the stairs. "I don't like the idea too much."

"The idea?" Kyle said. His heart was slamming. He wanted to ask Stan so many questions like this, about how he dealt with the lonely nights on the ranch.

"Paying for it," Stan said, still looking at the keys. "Seems - I mean, I'm not opposed to my friends doing it, I'm not the preaching type, but for me it don't seem right."

Kyle offered his agreement and tried to conceal his relief.

Stan was a good piano student, and Kyle wasn't surprised to learn that he had a guitar at home and sometimes played for Sparky. He shook his head hard when Kyle asked if he'd ever play for a larger audience.

"I wouldn't like it," he said. "Seems like showing off."

Despite the ease of his social interactions at the Dark Horse, which Kyle observed with envy each night, Stan was mostly a quiet, private person, and Kyle felt honored to be allowed to spend time with him alone. He always waited in the meadow at four o'clock with a combination of excitement and anxiety, as if this might be the day Stan decided he was through with Kyle's long talks about nothing in particular and requests for Stan to identify every mushroom they passed. Stan usually could, which impressed Kyle more than Stan knew.

One afternoon, Kyle left for the meadow a little early, unable to stand reading alone in his room for another moment. The house was still eerie to him, with its musty upstairs rooms, many of which his mother had not yet decided how to use, and the sense of dank history that emanated from every corner. Kyle had to wonder if he would have felt the presence of the place's past even without having been told what had gone on inside these rooms. He woke often from bad dreams about Rodney and felt that he couldn't entirely escape them, hearing laughter from out on the street and imagining it was coming from inside the house, down the hall, in one of the empty bedrooms.

He didn't expect to find Stan in the meadow so early, but it was a nice day, the heat having relinquished a bit since they arrived in town. He left his book at home, thinking he might just lie in the sun for a while, and was surprised to find Sparky already dashing across the meadow to greet him when he reached it.

"Where's Stan?" Kyle asked, as if the dog could answer. He was trained to meet Stan in the meadow after he came down from the mine, and Kyle got hot with embarrassment when he thought of himself basically doing the same. He leaned down to pet Sparky's ears, but as soon as he'd touched the dog's head he went bounding away, toward the woods. Kyle followed, his heart speeding up a little. Maybe Stan had tripped on his way down the mountain and sprained an ankle. Supposedly dogs were sensitive to such things, in terms of aiding in rescues.

Sparky ran toward the creek, and Kyle ran after him, past the tree line and into the shadows of the woods. He still felt disoriented when the meadow and the town were out of view, but he never worried about getting lost when he was with Stan, and Sparky seemed to know where he was going.

He did indeed: he led Kyle directly to Stan, who was squatting in the shallowest part of the creek, stark naked except for his hat, scrubbing dirt from his hands. Kyle had fetishized almost every part of the male body since his earliest experiences with communal showers, but he'd never before seen a man's naked thighs so tensed and perfect, like a sculpture—

"Oh!" Kyle said, spinning around when Stan looked up. "Sorry! I'm sorry!" He'd known that Stan always stopped at the creek to wash the dust and grime from the mine off before he met Kyle in the meadow, but it somehow had never occurred to him that he might come upon this, as if it took place in some parallel but separate universe.

"Hey, you're alright," Stan said, and Kyle heard the water splash as he stood. "Where you going?"

"Uh," Kyle said. He felt like he'd gone blind, the sight of the surrounding trees coming back to him slowly. "I don't know. Away. To give you privacy."

"Don't, you'll get lost," Stan said. "Sorry, I'm almost done."

"Sorry?" Kyle laughed. "I'm sorry, I. I'm sorry."

"I'm not that shy," Stan said. "Hey, can you toss me my drawers? The clean ones, I mean, they're in my bag right there."

"Your – oh." Kyle turned his head very slightly to scan the ground nearby. He saw Stan's bag dumped on a rock a few feet from the creek, his canteen and a packet of Peerless Wafers poking out. He always brought some food, and he claimed it wasn't for Kyle but was constantly offering it.

"Can you find them?" Stan asked. Kyle thought he heard Stan laughing a little, and turned to give him an annoyed look before he could stop himself. Stan was grinning, holding his hat over his crotch. Kyle whipped back around, in danger of becoming irreversibly aroused. He bent down to find the drawers, and touching them didn't help his condition. He made sure to avert his eyes as he brought them to Stan, his arm outstretched. "Thanks," Stan said, and he still sounded a little smug, as if this was amusing for him.

"Don't you feel vulnerable, doing this?" Kyle asked. He turned and examined the leaves on a nearby sapling tree, the ones that were touched by the late afternoon sun glowing yellow under his fingertips.

"Doing what?" Stan asked. He walked over to Kyle, wearing his drawers and his hat now, toweling the last of the dirt from his cheeks.

"Well, bathing!" Kyle said, and he scoffed. "I mean, anyone could come by! Or any thing."

"Oh, you mean like the ghosts?" Stan said, keeping his face serious only for a moment before he cracked a smile.

"No, I don't mean like that," Kyle said. He took Stan's towel from him and whipped it at him once, gently. "I mean like bears, for God's sake."

"That stream protects me," Stan said. "Never once has anybody come up on me here, or any creatures. Until you," he said, taking the towel back. Caught off guard and unthinking, Kyle held onto the other end and was pulled forward along with it. Stan was grinning, his hair dripping.

"Then I've broken the spell," Kyle said. "That's horrible, I'm sorry."

"Nah, it's like the spirits knew you were my friend. They gave you a pass."

"Oh? And they're your friends, too?"

"The ones from the stream are," Stan said. He winked. "Some of the tribes think everything has a spirit, did you know that?"

"I suppose I'd heard it."

"Seems smart to me," Stan said. "Or just nice. I guess I wish it was true."

"Me too," Kyle said, stupidly, barely aware of what was coming out of his mouth. Stan smelled like soap and fresh water, and something darker, too, the remnants of what he'd mostly washed away. He smelled like a man who'd just escaped the jaws of some mountain-sized beast.

"You get me," Stan said, and then he turned away, leaving Kyle holding the towel. Kyle wanted to say something more, but he was afraid he only thought he knew what Stan meant. Feeling nervous and light-headed, he sat down on the rock beside Stan's bag and took out the wafers.

"I hope it's alright," Kyle said when Stan turned to see him eating them. He was wrapping his soap back up in the paper casing he kept it in, tying a string around it. Kyle sort of wished Stan would put on a shirt, though he was also glad that he hadn't.

"Course it's alright," Stan said. "I got 'em for you."

"Oh – you don't have to buy me things, please. It's enough that you're teaching me to hunt."

"Am I, though?" Stan asked, and he came forward to toss the soap in his bag. "You won't even fire the gun."

"Well, I'd just waste your bullets!"

"Don't worry about that. Here, c'mon." Stan dug his shirt out and slid it on. "I'll set you up a target."

They went back to the edge of the meadow when Stan was dressed, and he set up three hunks of wood from a half-rotted stump on a felled tree trunk that sat between the meadow and the border of the forest like a natural fence. Stan took him fifty paces back and handed him the gun.

"Well, I can't just _do_ it," Kyle said, and Stan laughed. Kyle had eaten half the package of wafers and was starting to feel a bit queasy.

"Here," Stan said, and he stood behind Kyle, reaching down to pull his arms up. "The trick is to stay steady. Gun's kinda heavy, so it takes some practice."

"It's not that heavy," Kyle said, slightly offended. His arms were shaking, but mostly because Stan was sort of hugging him from behind as he helped him aim the gun.

"Shut one eye," Stan said. Kyle did. "Now get your aim. Okay, the first one on the left. You got a shot?"

"Oh, hell, I don't know. Yes, I suppose."

"Kyle," Stan said, laughing. He seemed to find Kyle amusing about fifty percent of the time, and Kyle kept waiting for it to bother him, but mostly he liked being a source of amusement for Stan. "Now squeeze the trigger slow, alright?" Stan was still helping him hold the gun, his other hand on Kyle's waist. "And it's gonna kick, so brace yourself."

Kyle groaned. That was the part he wasn't looking forward to, the kick.

"Take a deep breath," Stan said, softly, and the words raced up Kyle's arms, down through his chest and snapped against his cock, arriving there with a throb of interest. "Ready?" Stan said, and that hit Kyle even harder, possibly because he was suddenly aware of how close Stan's lips were to his ear.

"I think," Kyle said, his mouth going dry. He felt completely unprepared for whatever was about to happen, and was afraid that he might orgasm when the gun went off. He wanted to stay like this forever, suspended in this moment, Stan's hips snug against his ass.

"Okay," Stan said. "Fire!"

Kyle closed his eyes when he pulled the trigger, and realized that he'd done so only after the gun jumped back and nearly smacked him in the nose. Stan made sure it didn't, lowering it and stumbling back along with Kyle, steadying him. Kyle was breathless afterward, his heart beating fast.

"Did I hit it?" he asked, squinting through the gunsmoke that had kicked up.

"Um," Stan said. "No. But that's alright, here, let's try again."

Kyle fired the gun ten more times, and clipped the target in the middle on this tenth try. He felt newly alive with energy that was pulsing from his feet to his temples, intoxicated by how close Stan was keeping, how strong he felt there at Kyle's back, guiding his aim. By the time the sunset was bleeding orange into the sky Kyle was sweating, and he decided as Stan's arms unwound from him and he released the gun that what had just transpired had been the most erotic experience of his life. He was very glad to be wearing his father's oversized old jacket, despite the heat.

"That was good," Stan said when Kyle turned to him. Stan was flushed, too, from his cheeks back to his ears. "Um, here. Have some water."

"I'm hopeless," Kyle said, accepting Stan's canteen with shaking hands.

"You're not. We'll work on it." Stan clamped him on the shoulder. "Oh, listen," he said. "You hear that?"

For a moment Kyle could only hear his pounding heartbeat, but he turned toward the woods and tried to focus on whatever Stan was referring to. He was startled when heard a short scream from the distance, high pitched and almost like that of a woman, but not quite human.

"What is that?" Kyle asked, unnerved.

"Quail," Stan said. "Those fat little guys we've seen with the black feather on their heads. Sparky chases 'em but I always call him off." He whistled to the dog, who had gone to the edge of the wood again, listening intently. "They don't give much meat, and I'd hate to eat 'em. They're funny little guys."

"They sound like they're in peril," Kyle said. "It's like a girl shouting as she falls."

"I guess, maybe," Stan said, squinting. "I think they sound like little forest imps or something. Checking on each other – you hear the other one answering, farther out?"

"Forest imps?" Kyle said. "You read a lot of stories as a boy, didn't you?"

"Well, sure, don't all kids?" Stan looked sort of hurt, so Kyle gave his arm a squeeze.

"Yes, I think so," Kyle said. "My mother used to read those kinds of stories to me. With magic and so forth. They always took place in a wood."

"My mom read to me, too," Stan said. He slung the gun over his shoulder and turned for the town. "You want to head back? I still got plenty of jerky from that buck, I don't need to shoot anything."

"Jerky," Kyle said, because that seemed like a sad dinner. He walked alongside Stan, watching Sparky run up ahead of them. "What was your mother like?" he asked, hoping the question wouldn't hurt him. He'd heard plenty about Stan's father, and had twice seen him getting shit-faced at the bar, but Stan didn't talk about his mother.

"She was smart," Stan said. "Real smart, and she made things fun for me, you know? My dad always played guitar, and I guess I sorta learned from him, just by copying what he did, but my mom said I should learn notes, too. So I could write my own stuff."

"Do you?" Kyle asked.

"Sometimes," Stan said, mumbling. "Supposedly there's this real band coming from Denver to play at the festival next month," he said.

"What's the festival?"

"It sorta marks the end of summer. It's to do with the harvest, I guess, and the farmers all come to town for it. There's a big market during the day, and then there's music and dancing at night. We all go every year, it's a good time."

"Sounds nice," Kyle said, though he wasn't sure it would be. He did not dance, generally.

"Yeah, you oughta come," Stan said. "I mean, of course you'll come." He beamed at Kyle, so suddenly pleased-looking that Kyle laughed. "Right?"

"Of course," Kyle said, bumping his elbow against Stan's arm. "If you'll walk me there." He was still too timid to enter the Dark Horse without Stan.

They parted for dinner as usual, and when Kyle got home he jogged up the stairs to his room, ignoring his mother's shouted reminders to wash up. He cleaned his hands hurriedly in the basin on his dressing table and pulled the curtains over the window. He was so ready to burst that he could barely get his pants open and grab his dick before he was coming hard, falling face down onto the bed as he spilled himself. He moaned into the sheets and twitched joyfully, feeling as if he'd shed an iron cape. It was the first time he'd dared to touch himself since the shame of being discovered with Rodney.

As he came down from it he began to worry, and he rolled onto his back to contemplate the ceiling. He'd promised himself he would not do this: compromise his friendship with a kind man, continue to erode his soul with unnatural urges, and knowingly wallow in his darkest place. It was just that this didn't feel dark at all. The meadow had glowed with sunlight when Stan helped him shoot, and the breeze had been so sweet, the air so clean. Stan's touch had been gentle, patient, in contrast to the blasts from the gun that sent them both reeling backward. It had felt nothing like his evenings with Rodney.

And yet he knew it was a fantasy. Stan was kind, perhaps too kind for his own good, but he wasn't a deviant. Kyle rose from the bed feeling heavy again, and very tired. He rewashed his hands, opened the curtains, and resolved not to do that again, though already his thoughts were racing ahead to the evening, and how close he would or would not be able to sit next to Stan at the poker table. It was always pure chance: Craig would shove away from Cartman after he'd said something repulsive, pushing Kyle against Stan's side, and Kyle would stay there for as long as he could. Some nights, when Clyde or Butters didn't show, they didn't even brush elbows at the table.

Kyle went to the door to head down for dinner, but before he could reach it he heard a heavy thump from the direction of his closet. His heart began racing as if a switch had flipped, and he walked to the closet angrily, sure that it was Ike trying to scare him. He'd been opening the doors of the unused rooms because he knew that Kyle hated it.

He threw the closet open, ready to pummel his brother, but Ike wasn't there. A box had tumbled down from the shelf where Kyle had stored it, books spilling out. His throat constricted as he knelt down to collect them. They were his school books, from his courses at Trinity. _The Science of Reason_ had fallen open, showing a diagram of the human brain. Kyle was shaking as he examined the shelf, trying to determine why the box had fallen. Behind him, the closet door creaked as if it might close, and he threw his hand out push it open again, hurrying back into the room.

"Stop," he said, not sure who he was speaking to as he pushed the closet door shut, the books still disordered inside. He didn't believe in spirits and teased Stan for his superstitions, but he felt as if someone was watching him as he fled the room, laughing silently at his alarm.

"I suppose you're going out tonight as usual?" his mother said at the dinner table that night. Kyle was distracted, between wondering what the night would bring and why that box had fallen in his closet. He frowned and looked up to see his mother buttering a roll, and she returned his frown. "Bubbeh?" she said. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Kyle said. "Yes – yes, I'm going out."

"I'm glad you've made friends," his father said. "I hope they're the right sort."

"Gerald," Sheila said, and she glared at Ike when he snorted.

"Well, they include the son of the sheriff and the reverend," Kyle said, more sharply than he usually dared to speak to his father. Gerald gave him a look of warning, but his expression quickly softened.

"I am very glad about this, Kyle," he said. "I mean it."

"Well," Kyle said, caught off guard. "Me, too."

"How about me?" Ike asked, letting his fork clatter against his plate. "There's nobody my age in this godforsaken place! Only old people like Kyle."

Sheila laughed. "You think your brother is old? Oy."

"You know what I mean, mother," Ike said.

"You're very mature for your age," Gerald said. "I'd say you should go spend time with Kyle's friends—" Kyle's heart clenched in terror, his brother would ruin everything— "But I know they drink and smoke, and I don't want you exposed to that." He turned to Kyle. "You're not drinking very much, I hope?"

"Well, he can't!" Sheila said. "His health!"

"Mother, Dad," Kyle said. "Of course I'm not drinking much."

"Ha," Ike said. "Alright, so you come home stumbling because you've been in bar fights and lost?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Kyle said, and he returned to his mashed potatoes. He could feel his mother staring at him.

"That boy who takes piano lessons from you is a darling," Sheila said. "Mrs. Stotch told me about his father. So sad!"

"What about his father?" Gerald asked.

"He drinks," Sheila said, whispering this, as if Ike and Kyle wouldn't hear and be corrupted. Kyle rolled his eyes, still looking down at his plate.

"I'm finished, actually," he said, because he could hear footsteps on the front porch. "May I go?"

"Maybe we should meet this piano student properly," Gerald said.

"No, no," Sheila said, waving her hand over the table. "That is, I've met the boy, he's a harmless thing. Go on, Kyle, and have fun."

Kyle rose from the table, wiping his mouth with his napkin. He wasn't sure he liked the description of Stan as a 'harmless thing,' but was very glad that his mother had stopped his father from staging an interrogation. He grabbed his hat and ran for the door.

"Don't you dare gamble," Gerald called.

"Never," Kyle said, though he planned to. He didn't actually like it; it was stressful and he wasn't very good at cards. It was just that he wanted to fit in, and whiskey and gambling were required for that.

"Have a good supper?" Stan asked as they headed down the street, Kyle still fussing with his hat.

"It was alright," Kyle said. "A strange thing happened just before."

"Yeah?" Stan was wearing his hat, too, and Kyle couldn't help but think of where it had been earlier: held over his naked crotch.

"Um," he said, shaking his head. "Yes, some books fell in my closet. Well, it doesn't sound very strange now. It's just – it was the particular book that fell out, um. I don't know."

"Which book?" Stan asked, his eyes widening, and Kyle wished he hadn't said anything.

"Oh, nothing," Kyle said. "One of my textbooks. My least favorite subject, shall we say."

"We shall say, yes," Stan said, and he shoved Kyle a little when he gave him a look, grinning. "Well, hey. I don't believe that shit Cartman was shoveling at you about angry babies or whatever."

"Neither do I," Kyle said. "Look, forget it—"

"I think your soul must get recycled if you die as a baby," Stan said. "God wouldn't put no baby in purgatory forever just for dying before some water got dumped on its head. You know?"

"Ah, yes. I agree."

"What do the Jewish people think about all this?"

"Oh, um. If they don't live for more than 30 days, you don't mourn for them."

"Shit," Stan said.

"Well." They were nearly at the door of the Dark Horse, and Kyle found he was very ready for a drink, though he still winced at the smell of whiskey. "It's – meant to protect people, I think. Because they're so vulnerable, you know, the babies. But yes, kind of grim."

"Kind of," Stan said. "But, so. You felt like someone was there?"

"No, no," Kyle said, though he had. "I was – it was sort of – I was tired. Half asleep, even, I'd taken a nap." He hadn't, but the haze that had descended over him after he came to the thought of Stan whispering, _Ready?_ had been like a kind of sleep, a retirement from full consciousness. "It's you that's put all this into my head," Kyle said, stopping at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the Dark Horse's front porch. "Not Cartman, he's a buffoon."

"Well, sure," Stan said. "But I don't mean to make you anxious."

"It's not – you haven't." Kyle forced a laugh, feeling strange. "Let's go in."

The usual gang was there, at the usual table against the wall, by the front window. Kyle was glad that all were present, even Clyde, because it meant a tighter squeeze, and his chair butted up against Stan's. He ordered his usual whiskey with water when Bebe arrived, and Cartman made the usual comments about how this meant that Kyle, like Butters, was actually a woman. Kyle ignored it as always, fuming silently and staring at the cards Craig had dealt him. At one point during the game, Clyde elbowed Stan and leaned in to speak to him privately. Pretending not to notice this, Kyle listened in.

"You glad it's almost September?" Clyde asked.

"Huh?" Stan said.

"Wendy's coming back in September, right?" Clyde said.

"Oh, yeah." Stan rearranged some cards. Kyle watched this from the corner of his eye, then dared a glance at Clyde. He was staring at Stan, smirking the way that Kenny did when Clyde showed up after having Bebe upstairs.

"Shit, but you're a prude," Clyde said. "You don't gotta act like you're not looking forward to it."

"Sorry I don't air my business in public like some," Stan said, muttering. Clyde snorted.

"Are ya'll talking about Wendy?" Butters asked, shouting this across the table. "I'm sure glad she's coming back! What a great gal!"

"Who's Wendy?" Kyle asked, grabbing for his whiskey. He threw the remainder of it back in one shallow, forcing it down and only coughing once.

"Wendy's the doctor's daughter," Kenny said. "Damn fine looking woman."

"Stan's bitch," Cartman said.

"Shut your goddamn mouth!" Stan said. "Don't call her that."

"She was in Denver with her grandmother for the summer," Craig said, and something about the way he spoke directly to Kyle, and the conciliatory look in his eyes, made Kyle fear he knew everything, such as the fact that Kyle's stomach was pinching up into a knot of humiliated rage as he realized that his fantasy of having Stan for himself was already ending.

"You'd better propose to her before she leaves again," Clyde said, looking at his cards but clearly speaking to Stan. "Unless she's already met some fancy city boy."

"Right, I'm gonna propose to someone," Stan said. "Come move in with me and my dad, we're barrels of fun."

"Don't let that stop you, man!" Clyde said, and he grabbed Stan's arm. "That girl'd do anything for you. You know how rare that is?"

"Ugh, shut up!" Cartman said, and it was the first time Kyle had ever agreed with something he'd said. "I don't know which of you is more pathetic, and I don't care to deliberate. Ante up, assholes."

Kyle lost almost five dollars that night, unable to concentrate on the game. He also had one more whiskey with water than he normally dared, and felt combative by the end of the evening, ready for a fight. The problem was that he wanted to fight a lady he'd never met, this Wendy. He shrugged Stan's hand off when Stan tried to help him navigate the closely packed tables on his way to the door.

"Sorry you lost," Stan said, hanging close as Kyle marched down the street, dreading his return to that room where the textbook for Rodney's course was still open in the dark of his closet.

"It doesn't matter," Kyle said, and he laughed bitterly. "I lose, that's what I do."

"You okay?" Stan asked, and he took Kyle's arm. Kyle didn't have the heart to shake him off again.

"Just drunk," Kyle said. "I suppose – you're happy, though? Your girl is coming home soon, they said."

"She ain't my girl," Stan said, and Kyle expected a further explanation, but Stan said nothing.

"They seemed to think so," Kyle said.

"Yeah, well. They think a lot of stupid things. Clyde's just a lovesick bastard, and he wants company."

"Why won't Bebe marry him?" Kyle asked. "Even if she doesn't love him, he seems nice enough, and it would be better than the life she has – wouldn't it?"

"She's a principled lady," Stan said, and he glanced at Kyle as if expecting him to laugh at that. He didn't. "And, uh. Well, don't repeat this, but I think she's too in love with somebody else to get with Clyde, money or not."

"Oh?" Kyle tried to imagine who that might be. Certainly not Cartman; Bebe barely deigned to look at him. Butters was hardly the sort women cared for, Craig was pitiable at best, and Bebe sneered at Kenny more often than not. "You?" Kyle exclaimed, unable to hide his horror. Stan laughed hard and knocked into him, throwing his arm around Kyle's shoulders.

"No, man," he said. "Not me. Somebody who left town. Shit, I'm drunk. You can't repeat this, alright?"

"I don't really talk to anyone but you," Kyle said.

"Hmm. I suppose that's true. Alright, well. Don't be too shocked, and I could be wrong, but I think Bebe loved that girl, Red. The one who married my friend Gary. Bebe wasn't happy about them two getting together, and I have sort of a mind for these things, too."

"These things?" Kyle repeated, feeling weak. Stan shrugged.

"Who people care about," he said. "Sometimes." He put mouth against Kyle's ear, and Kyle could hear how drunk Stan was in the way he whispered loudly, "Sometimes I think Craig's that way about Clyde. Don't tell no one."

"I've thought that, too," Kyle said. He was staring at Stan as they made their way down the road in a stumbling tandem walk, not sure if he should be aghast or delighted.

"Yeah?" Stan said. He clicked his tongue. "Hey, I've never told anyone that."

"Anyone – what?"

"Either of them things. How I think about people – what their secrets might be."

"You haven't told Wendy?" Kyle asked, barely following.

"Shit, no," Stan said. "She's real scientific. She doesn't care for intuitions or creeks that got spirits living in them or none of that. She doesn't even believe in God."

"Sometimes I'm not sure I do," Kyle said as they came to the steps of his house. Stan shrugged, his arm still around Kyle's shoulders.

"She's sure," he said. "Anyway, she's coming back, so. You'll like her."

"Will I?" Kyle mounted the first stair on the porch, as had become his habit. It put him and Stan at the same height while Stan stood on the ground.

"Yep," Stan said. "You remind me of her, a little."

"How so?"

"Um, well. Smart, and different – different than most folks in this town. And you hate Cartman almost as much as she does."

"I hate him more!" Kyle said, offended, and he smiled when Stan did, unable to stop himself.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Stan said.

"I won't come so early again," Kyle said. "I mean, so that. You'll have privacy. I am sorry about that, truly. I am."

"That's 'cause you've got better manners than me," Stan said. "I ain't sorry."

He walked off then, leaving Kyle feeling as if he'd been struck. He was dizzy as he went into the house, newly drunk. His mother was up late as usual, sitting in the parlor area that she'd constructed in the large front room, adjacent to the dining table. She was pretending to be reading, but Kyle was sure she'd been looking out the window a moment ago.

"You stay out so late," she said.

"I'm tired," Kyle said, too drunk to engage her. "Good night."

"That friend of yours walks home alone in the dark?" she said before Kyle could reach the stairs. "All the way to that ranch? Seems crazy to me. There are still wild people around here, you know."

"Wild people, mother?"

"I don't just mean the tribes! I'm talking about mountain people, renegades from society. Martha Donovan was telling me there's some family called McCormick who live in a shack in the woods."

"Oh, that's Kenny's family, they won't hurt anyone."

"What? What, excuse me? You know one of these people?"

"He plays cards with us – Mother, really, my head is aching, I need to go to bed."

"You sound drunk!" Sheila said, and she watched Kyle going up the stairs, standing and scowling at him, her book in her hand. "I've done a lot for you to have another chance a life, Kyle. Don't throw it back in my face!"

"I wouldn't!" Kyle said, and he hurried into his room.

Once there, he collapsed onto the bed, thinking of what Stan had said about not being sorry that Kyle had come upon him at the creek. He shrugged off his jacket and pushed down his suspenders, then his pants. Only when he sat up to work on his boots did he remember the book in the closet. He froze, staring at the door and wondering if he should go inside and shut the book. He wanted to burn it, or to bury it somewhere in the woods, but he didn't want to open the closet now, with the room so dark. He chucked his boots off and tried to think instead about this Wendy person, who Stan thought Kyle would like. He suspected Stan was very wrong about that.

He slept, still mostly in his clothes and without remembering to close the curtains. Late that night something woke him, and he lifted his face from the bedsheets with alarm, feeling again as if he wasn't alone. The sound of breaking glass and angry words came from the street, not far from his window. Kyle sat up, head pounding, and crossed the room with blurred vision. He peered outside but couldn't see anyone, and the voices had receded.

When he returned to his bed, sleep eluded him. His heart was still pumping hard from the sound of glass breaking, and the room seemed too hollow around him, echoing, though it wasn't large. He rolled toward the wall and hugged his arms around himself, trying to think of something pleasant that would calm his nerves. He imagined himself at that festival, perusing gourd vegetables during the day and watching the band with Stan at night. It occurred to him that Wendy might be there, and that Stan might dance with her. In fact, it seemed likely. His stomach ached, and he pulled his knees up to his chest, curling in on himself.

Sleep took him off guard, and even though he was passed out, unthinking, some part of him still felt awake. He heard footsteps and assumed it was Ike creeping around out in the hall, then realized with a jolt of panic that someone was in his room, near his bed, pacing slowly back and forth. Kyle tried to leap up or shout, but it was as if some spell had been placed on him, and he kept believing himself successful only to realize that he was still lying motionless in the bed, his limbs heavy and uncooperative, eyes closed. He jerked violently when the person came closer and grasped his wrist, pulling his arm behind his back and pinning it there.

Kyle finally managed to fling himself upright, waking and scrambling away until his back hit the wall. Panting raggedly, he surveyed the room for the intruder, but of course there was no one. Of course. It had only been a dream.

He lit his lamp anyway, and checked the corners of the room, hands shaking. He contemplated the closet but decided to leave the door shut. It was foolish - what was he afraid he might release? - but he couldn't even bring himself to go near to it. He left the lamp lit on his dressing table and hurried under the blankets on his bed, though it was a warm night and he was already sweating. Sitting with his back to the wall, he continued to peer around the room. He felt as if he was waiting for someone to shed their concealment and rush at him, or like he was being taunted from behind a one-way mirror. His eyes darted to the window, and he wished he'd thought to close the damn curtains. Now he didn't want to leave the blankets to do so.

For a moment he'd been certain that it was Rodney himself in the room, that he'd escaped prison and found Kyle somehow, seeking revenge. When they were found, it was because Kyle had cried out in what must have sounded like pain, and perhaps it had been. It had often been hard for him to differentiate between what hurt and felt good, because the two sensations usually came in such close contact. Kyle's arms had been held behind his back, pinned there in Rodney's grip, and when the headmaster and the nurse came through the door he'd looked to them and cried out again, two words that would damn Rodney to a maximum sentence.

Help me.

It had been a betrayal, certainly, and a dishonesty, in some ways, because he'd gone to Rodney's room that night willingly, knowing what would happen. They had been meeting for months by then, and Kyle often felt sick to his stomach when he thought of it during the day, his soreness pinching him when he shifted in his seat in class, but at night something always drew him there. Part of it was a fear of angering Rodney, but he also craved the solitude of Rodney's grand rooms, after the fucking was done. Rodney would give him wine, some good cheese, and would invite Kyle to engage in debate as if they were adults. He thought of himself as a philosopher in the style of the Greeks, tutoring a promising pupil. Or one who had a promisingly enticing ass, more realistically.

That 'help me' had not felt insincere in the moment. It had come to Kyle authentically when he saw those two gaping at him, aghast. He'd felt as if he should have been helped sooner.

He dropped down to huddle under the blankets completely, humiliated by his memories. He had been treated by the nurse, subjected to questions, and brought home to his parents. Later, he was interviewed by officers who watched his face grow so red that he feared the shame would literally burn him, leaving scars. He had felt they suspected he was lying when he said it was all Rodney's idea, but it had been, even if Kyle had been under no physical duress as he tiptoed down the dark hallways toward Rodney's rooms. His mother was the only one who knew the truth, or some of it. She'd helped Kyle burn Rodney's letters, and Kyle was saved from punishment only because he'd written none himself. There had been moments when he'd enjoyed himself, or at least when his body had, but he'd never had feelings for Rodney that might have manifested in confessional letters.

Once dawn broke he was able to sleep, and he was in bed for most of the afternoon. His mother came up at one point to give him a lecture about alcohol, and after she'd gone he rose slowly and went toward the closet. He collected _The Science of Reason_ and all of his other old textbooks, dumping them back into the box before bringing it downstairs.

"I'd like to donate some books," he said to Stan when they were walking through the woods later that day. It was a pretty afternoon, not too hot, and Kyle felt far away from his nighttime anxiety, but not far enough.

"What kind of books?" Stan asked.

"My old schoolbooks. There's some history, literature-"

"I'll take them!" Stan said, stopping to turn to him. "I mean - unless you were thinking of donating them to the church or something. Or to Kenny."

"I have one I might give to Kenny," Kyle said, thinking he might appreciate _The Science of Reason_ , and not wanting to sully Stan by passing it along to him.

"I don't know that he can read, actually," Stan said, and he removed his hat, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. "But yeah, I'll take 'em, unless you were thinking about giving them to orphans or something."

"No, I'd like to give them to you," Kyle said. "Except for this one that I sort of want to burn, though I hate the idea of burning a book."

"Why do you want to burn it?" Stan asked. "Was the teacher cruel?"

"Ha!" Kyle flushed and walked a little faster, tucking his arms over his chest. "Yes, I suppose he was. Cruel to me, specifically." He had the insane urge to tell Stan everything in that moment, but of course he couldn't.

"Why would anyone be cruel to you?" Stan asked, and Kyle turned away from him, trying to laugh.

"Most people don't take to me like you have," he said.

"Even in the city?"

"Even there. Can we shoot now? I'd like to shoot, I think, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind," Stan said, and when Kyle turned back to him they studied each other for a moment. Stan smiled uncertainly and Kyle tried to make his own smile appear carefree. Even if they somehow became close enough that Kyle could trust Stan with the story of why he'd left New York, he would never tell him. He wouldn't want the weight of it between them.

Kyle continued to be a poor shot, but he looked forward to his lessons very acutely, always anticipating the next time Stan would prop himself up behind Kyle as if he were a tree and Kyle a vine that was free to find purchase on Stan's trunk. After he'd given Stan the books, their walks through the woods included Stan's questions about the context of what he'd read, though more often he just wanted to know what Kyle thought, personally, about particular figures in history or fiction. Kyle was always flustered when he answered, though not uncomfortable. He'd never realized how much he would like being the one who explained things, in a position of semi-authority, even if he wasn't always sure that he was articulating his thoughts very well. Stan was a kind audience, anyway, and Kyle was glad that he didn't seem curious about the contents of _The Science of Reason_ , which went to Craig after it was confirmed that Kenny could not read.

"I could teach you, if you have any interest," Kyle said to Kenny one night when they were leaving the Dark Horse with him and Butters. Generally Cartman, Craig and Clyde stayed latest, Clyde because he longed to be in the company of Bebe, and Cartman and Craig because, Kyle suspected, they were lonely.

"Teach me?" Kenny said. He slung his arm around Kyle, making him uncomfortable. Almost everything Kenny did made Kyle want to lean slightly further away, and he wasn't sure why. Possibly it was just the smell of him, which was like boiled onions and old socks. "Teach me what?" Kenny said as Kyle tossed his arm off.

"Literacy," Kyle said. "I'd do it for free."

"Kind of you," Kenny said, and he smirked as if Kyle had offered sexual services free of charge. "But I don't have time for all that. I got three jobs."

"When do you sleep?" Kyle asked.

"In the caves," Kenny said. "While I'm digging rock. I can do that in my sleep, since I'm married to the mountain."

"Married to the mountain," Kyle said, and he turned back to see what Butters and Stan were doing. Stan had cupped a firefly in his hands and Butters was peeking at it. "I thought you were the mountain? Or the spirit of it, or something."

"I'm both," Kenny said. "It's like the holy trinity. I'm also the son of the mountain, see."

"You're drunk and crazy," Kyle said, hoping that he was now well acquainted enough with the group to join them in insulting each other. Kenny nodded.

"Believe that if you must," he said. "But don't disrespect me too much. I watch over this here town, keeping the bad spirits out."

"Ha," Kyle said. "I suppose I should thank you, then."

"You should, absolutely."

"You might do a better job keeping them out of my room at night," Kyle said. He'd had two whiskeys, and was not looking forward to another night of restless sleep. "I've been hearing things."

"Cartman's dead babies?"

"No, I don't know. Creaks and things."

"We should do a seance!" Stan said, apparently listening. He released the firefly and rushed forward, his shoulder knocking against Kyle's. "Some night when your parents are out having dinner with the Stotches or the Donovans. We should figure out who the spirits are, the ones stuck in the Golden Nugget. I been reading about this, up north they do it all the time."

"Oh, gosh!" Butters said, appearing at Kenny's other side. "Sounds dangerous, Stan. And sorta sacrilegious."

"I hereby deem it not sacrilegious," Kenny said, holding up a finger. "Not against me, anyway, and I say we do it."

"Kenny, you gotta quit saying you're a god!" Butters said. He looked sincerely fretful. "You're gonna get struck by lightening or something, I swear!"

"That would be of little consequence," Kenny said.

"How is it that you can't read but you have such a good vocabulary?" Kyle asked.

"I been around," Kenny said. "I learn orally." He stuck his tongue out and Kyle reared away, bumping into Stan.

They parted from those two at Kyle's porch, and Kyle was drunk enough to want to bring Stan inside. Perhaps he could be enticed up to Kyle's bedroom with the promise of ghosts. Kyle certainly wouldn't mind having him there when he woke from unsettling dreams in the darkest, stillest hours of the night.

"Mist's already rolling in," Stan said. "Getting cooler at night, too, past few days. Won't have the fireflies around much longer. Shit, I guess tomorrow's already the tenth."

"So Wendy will be coming," Kyle said. He'd been counting the days since the start of September, dreading her arrival.

"Yeah," Stan said. "She wrote me. Her dad's gone up to Denver to get her. They should be here by tomorrow night."

"Will you propose to her?" Kyle asked, anger flashing through him like a lightening strike, and Stan laughed.

"Hell no," he said. "I look like the marrying type?"

"Oh. You're not?"

Stan shrugged, groaning a little. "I thought I'd see the world, you know?"

"Yes, you should," Kyle said. "You absolutely should."

"But how am I gonna? Unless I join the Union army."

"Oh, God." Kyle couldn't stop himself; he grabbed for Stan's shoulders. "Don't do that."

"I won't - I can't, I gotta take care of my dad. Don't like the thought of killing anybody, either. But that's why I gotta stay here, always. My dad's here, and who else is going to pick him up off the floor and make sure he eats?" Stan looked away, and Kyle was embarrassed when he realized he was still holding Stan's shoulders, rather tightly now. He made himself let go, his arms dropping to his sides. "Clyde says I might as well marry her, if I'm stuck here. Least she'd be. Someone to talk to."

"Clyde is an idiot," Kyle said, and Stan laughed. "Marrying as a kind of compromise can only go poorly. Um, I suspect."

"That's my feeling, too," Stan says. "She was talking about joining up with the army as a nurse, so she might not be here long, anyway. But you'll like her. I'll bring her to the Dark Horse tomorrow night."

"You'll - oh, so. I'll go there. I'll meet you there."

"We could pick you up on the way."

"No, no, that's fine." Kyle couldn't believe how quickly it had ended. Already he felt like he'd lost permission to grab for Stan's shoulders ever again. Would their afternoon wanderings in the woods even continue? Would Wendy join them? Kyle would stop speaking to Stan altogether if he allowed that. "I'll be there at the usual time," he said when he'd found his voice again. "I suppose you won't have a piano lesson tomorrow."

"Why wouldn't I?" Stan asked.

"Because you'll be - preparing for her arrival, or something, I suppose, which is fine-"

"Nah, I don't have to do anything special," Stan said. "I'll be here for my lesson. I might get Bebe to cut my hair later, that's all. Wendy tends to take it personal when it grows over my ears like this. You alright?"

"Of course I'm alright." Kyle laughed and looked up at the moon, which was partially obscured by the thickening mist. "You'd better get going before it's too foggy to see the road."

"You'll be okay up there?" Stan said, glancing up at Kyle's bedroom window.

"What do you mean? Of course I will."

"You've been looking kinda tired."

Offended, Kyle pressed his lips together and gave a little shrug. "This place is tiring for me," he said.

"Oh." Stan looked down at Kyle's chest, as if he wanted to cheat and read the real reasons for his mood by examining his breaking heart. "Alright. You sleep well, Kyle. I'll see you tomorrow. Um, here, for my lesson."

"Yes, I know. Fine. See you. Goodnight."

Kyle hurried into the house, past his mother. She said nothing as he tore up the stairs, which was perhaps worse, because he felt that she knew he'd been hurt.

"I wish you wouldn't spy on me!" he shouted before slamming his bedroom door shut.

Kyle barely slept that night, too obsessed with his misery to rest. Stan was planning to cut his hair for Wendy, to please her, or to look his best for her discerning gaze. Kyle liked the way it curled just a little over Stan's ears, on the ends, especially when he'd been wearing his hat all day. He liked everything about the way Stan looked, and it was unfair that he should have to. He'd been touching himself almost nightly, and it was Stan's fault for hugging up behind him during his shooting lessons, for bracing him when the gun went off, and for giving Kyle all the pinks and browns from the rolls of Peerless Wafers, because he knew Kyle liked those flavors best. Every time one dissolved on Kyle's tongue he thought of Stan, and wondered if he might at least let Kyle suck on him. As a favor, the way some boys at Trinity had serviced each other in a perfunctory way. Only for Kyle it wouldn't be perfunctory. It would be heavenly, he knew, the weight of Stan on his tongue, gentle hands in his hair, Stan's astonished sighs of gratitude. Kyle imagined his come would taste a bit sweet, tinged with a hint of wafery sugar.

At some point he slept, undisturbed, and woke late in the afternoon. His mother was shaking him, asking if he was sick.

"Yes," Kyle said, feeling it was true as he held his pillow over his face. She had opened his curtains, letting cruel sunlight flood the room.

"Well, then I'll tell your friend to go home," Sheila said. "He's come for his piano lesson, but if you're sick—"

"No, I'm fine," Kyle said, and he rolled out of bed, glad that he'd slept long enough to lose his morning erection. "Tell him I'll be down in a moment." He realized as his mother left that he shouldn't be doing this, jumping up to accommodate Stan. Kyle should turn him away, tell him to see to his hair. He couldn't, though; he could never wait to see Stan again, even if he was rotting inside with jealousy before this woman's carriage had even reached the town.

Kyle was tired, and harsh with Stan during his lesson, though he got the impression Stan didn't mind. Stan was quiet, agreeable when Kyle corrected him, sitting close.

"I think I have a fever," Kyle said, because he still felt half-awake and the front room was terribly stuffy at this time of day. "Keep playing," he said when Stan stopped to look at him.

"A fever could be serious," Stan said. "And you with your health condition, you'd better have Dr. Testaburger see you."

"Wendy's father?" Kyle said, trying not to show that he was wounded by the suggestion.

"Yeah," Stan said. "He's real good, he helped me when I had a flu last year. Shit, I hope you hadn't got one. I was out of commission for a week. You'd miss the festival."

"I'm sure it's not that," Kyle said. "And. Wendy wants to be a nurse, you said? She must help him? Must have helped, when you were sick?"

"A little," Stan said. "There wasn't much they could do but make sure I got food down. Hey, you want to take a break to eat something? You look a little pale."

"I'm afraid pale and tired is just how I look," Kyle said sharply, and he pointed to the keys. "Back to it, you were doing well."

"I don't mean to—" Stan said, and when Kyle met his eyes again he looked punched. Kyle shook his head.

"Never mind," he said. "Play."

There was a tension between them for the remainder of the lesson, and it was ripping Kyle's stomach to shreds. He felt certain that he really was coming down with something as he walked Stan to the door.

"We'll stop by on the way to the bar tonight," Stan said. "Me and – to pick you up."

"It's not necessary," Kyle said, and he laughed. "I can walk into the place without help."

"But you don't like to," Stan said. He looked a little pale himself, greenish.

"It doesn't bother me anymore," Kyle said. "I'll see you there. I may be late, I have some letters I want to write."

He went back to bed as soon as Stan was gone, and could barely rouse himself for dinner. He found himself waiting to hear Stan's knock, thinking Stan might know that he really did want to be escorted to the Dark Horse as usual, very badly. He just couldn't bear it with this Wendy person hanging on Stan's arm all the way there, asking Kyle questions, trying to get a read on him.

Stan didn't come, and Kyle went to the Dark Horse only twenty minutes late, unable to wait any longer for the sake of appearances. His heart had climbed up into his throat, and as he entered he found he had a hard time focusing his eyes, too afraid of what they may land on. As soon as he could capture his wits enough to point himself in the direction of their usual table, he spotted her. She had her back to the door, and Kyle could really see her long black hair, almost the same shade of sleek obsidian that Stan's was. Stan was hatless, and Kyle could tell even from the back that he'd had his hair trimmed, no more wispy bits curling over his ears. Wendy was sitting beside him, in Kyle's chair.

"Here's Stan's other bitch," Cartman said when Kyle came to the table. Kyle stood there limply, making no attempt at a retort. Wendy and Stan turned to him, and he met her eyes first. She was uniquely beautiful, the kind of woman who would have stopped traffic even in New York. Of course.

"Kyle?" Wendy said, putting out her hand. "Wendy Testaburger," she said when they shook, Kyle still standing in glum silence. He could feel Stan's eyes on him. "I'm sure these idiots have filled you with impressions of me already."

"Ah," Kyle said. "No – yes. A bit. It's good to meet you."

"Here, Kyle!" Butters said, shoving over on the bench that he shared with Cartman and Kenny. "There's plenty of room," he said, practically in Cartman's lap, patting a space on the bench that was approximately the size of Kyle's left ass cheek.

"No, hey, take Clyde's chair," Stan said. "You're going to up to see Bebe, right?"

"Oh, don't," Wendy said, taking Clyde's arm. "I should speak to her. You have to let me find her a – day position." Wendy looked up at Kyle. "Just fetch that chair," she said, pointing to a free one at a table full of rough-looking older men. "They don't seem to be using it."

"I'll get it," Stan said, and he stood so quickly that he stumbled a little and ended up stepping on Kyle's foot. Kyle yelped loud enough to get the attention of everyone in the room, and laughter quickly followed. Stan returned with the chair and wedged it in between Clyde and Wendy, sneaking a glance at Kyle when he straightened up. "Sorry," he said.

"For what?" Kyle asked.

"Stepping on you."

"Oh. Yeah. I'm fine."

"So, Kyle," Wendy said when he sat. "I've spent the whole afternoon hearing about you from Stan and Butters. I think you've positively fascinated everyone."

"I'm sure I haven't," Kyle said, and he looked around for a drink.

"Tell me," Wendy said. "How do they feel about the war in New York? I feel I've talked of nothing else all summer, but I can't seem to think of anything else. And why should I? I'm sure they have brilliant discussions about it where you're from."

"We, um." Kyle glanced at Kenny, who was smirking knowingly, twirling a quarter through his fingers like it was part of his anatomy. "Well, we sympathetized with the Union, obviously. Being that we were part of it."

"You don't say," Craig said.

"Well, surely you still do," Wendy said. Her eyes were a sort of oddly bright brown, like copper. "I consider myself just as much a part of the Union as anyone in New York, even if my residence is in disputed territory. I don't dispute it, after all. I think everything the Confederacy stands for is despicable, selfish and doomed to bring everyone who upholds those so-called values to ruin."

"You really think," Cartman said, leaning over the table to sneer at her, "That one self-interested government knows what's best for us here, in South Park? You think they've ever been anywhere near here, or that they ever mean to come? They want to suck us dry of resources and pile it all up there while they hand down their horse shit laws from on high. They want to make us the slaves!"

"Better someone else be enslaved then?" Wendy said, glaring at him. "Don't even attempt to engage me with this again, you utter imbecile. You're of able body – why not join up with the Confederates if you feel so passionately about their cause?"

"Wendy, please," Clyde said, and he put his hands over his face, moaning into them. "We've been having this same conversation all summer."

Nevertheless, she continued, and Cartman met her every argument with spitting disbelief and a quick, if inane, rebuttal. Kyle grew bored and got drunk, watching Stan's hand on the table from the corner of his eye. He had very inelegant hands, shortish fingers and cuts on his knuckles from the mine, rough patches on his palms. Kyle thought they were beautiful, and would sometimes lose track of what Stan's piano playing sounded like as he watched them on the keys.

Bebe came to join them during the card game, apparently off duty, the bartender shouting out for last calls. She took a seat in Clyde's lap and shouted over him and Kyle to talk to Wendy, asking her about the pace of life in Denver. Craig folded and muttered his goodbyes, and Kyle threw back the last of his third whiskey before doing the same.

"You're going?" Stan said, and Kyle nodded.

"Have a pleasant Sunday," Kyle said, only slurring a little as he imagined Stan and Wendy riding out to the lake and picnicking, Wendy running her fingers through Stan's shortened hair.

"It was good to meet you," Wendy said. "I'm sorry we didn't get to talk much, but once I get worked up there's no stopping me."

"Understandable," Kyle said, and he followed Craig out, stumbling.

The mist had already fallen, and the chill in the air still had a distant quality, a promise carried down from the top of the mountain: winter would come in just a few short months. Kyle had hated winter even in the city, and he could only imagine how far its icy fingers would reach here, that meadow buried in snow until May.

"I think I'm coming down with something," Kyle said after he had walked with Craig in silence for a few paces.

"Understandable," Craig said.

Kyle took ill the following morning, though he couldn't be sure it wasn't just a sense of hopelessness and defeat that had come over him. Even if that was the case, he was suffering terribly, and he allowed his mother to coddle him as he stayed in bed throughout the week. At one point they even had Wendy's father come up to check his temperature, and Dr. Testaburger prescribed a mixture of lupine, trigonella fenugreek, and zedoary seed, thinking Kyle's ailment had to do with his diabetes. The combination tasted terrible, like a mouthful of hay and dirt, and Kyle swallowed it bitterly.

Stan visited him on the third day, bearing Peerless Wafers and a canteen full of spring water, and for a few blissful moments Kyle was cured. He sat up and drank from Stan's canteen gladly, and motioned for Stan to sit at the end of his bed. Stan did so, and he took off his hat once he had.

"Do I look terrible?" Kyle asked.

"No," Stan said. "Just kinda flushed. Like somebody who's had his face in a pillow. You gonna be alright?" he asked, and he reached out as if to lay his hand on Kyle's knee, not quite reaching it.

"I don't know," Kyle said. "As I've told you, I'm sickly."

"That's—" Stan looked toward the window and chewed his lip. Kyle hoped he wouldn't cry, then thought he might like it, a little.

"Tell me what I've missed," Kyle said. "Since I've been ill."

"Oh, nothing," Stan said. "I've had bad luck with the hunting. I've been reading a lot. That one you gave me – Great Expectations. I read that."

"How did you find it?"

"I don't know," Stan said, beginning to mumble. He tended to withhold his own opinions about what he read if he could. "Seemed like it didn't have to end so sad."

"He rewrote it, actually," Kyle said. "That's an early edition I gave you. We talked about this in class – he rewrote the ending so that Pip and Estella were together. Because people complained it was too sad. So, your observation is astute." He felt cold, saying so, and wanted to reach for Stan's hand in apology.

"Well," Stan said, and he touched the back of his neck. Kyle wanted to put his hand there, too, and to smooth down Stan's hair, which had been upset by the removal of his hat. "That's good."

"Is it good, though? The original ending was sad, yes, but in class some of us argued that it had more integrity. Since so much of the story was about ruin and disappointment, you see."

"Hmm." Stan was looking at his hat now, his fingers moving around the brim. "Well, I'm glad you're sitting up and talking and so forth. I was real worried."

"It's good that you have Wendy now, to spend time with," Kyle said. "Since I'm ill."

"She's mostly been studying up on nursing," Stan says. "She wants to go off to some battlefield and patch up wounded soldiers. She's like that."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, adventurous. And kind, I mean. She cares."

"Ah. Well, I'm sorry to hear about her wanting to leave, I know you'd miss her. She's very smart, I think, and beautiful. Everything you all said, it's true."

"Hey, so," Stan said, softly, still looking at his hat. "You think you'll be well enough to come to the festival on Friday? I'd really like you to see it."

"Oh, who knows," Kyle said. "But you'll have fun with the others, don't worry about me."

"Mhm." Stan flipped his hat around between his fingers a few times. "It's just that you've never seen it," he said after Kyle had waited in silence for several long moments, chewing the insides of his cheek.

"I don't know that I'd appreciate it, anyway," Kyle said. It broke him to talk like this, but strengthened different parts of him at the same time. He'd made himself too vulnerable to Stan too quickly. "It seems like something more for – locals."

"Wendy's bought a new dress," Stan said, and Kyle's armor fell away, that statement piercing him deeply. "Something fine from Denver, I guess."

"Oh, that's sweet," Kyle said. "I suppose some people consider Denver a source of high fashion."

"I'll leave you alone," Stan said, and he did, exiting quickly, his hat still in his hand.

Kyle's sense of wretchedness returned tenfold, and by Friday there was no way he was leaving his bed to dress for some country festival. He'd begun to hate the idea, and everyone in town, but most of all he hated his room, which had never felt more like a prison. As the light began to change, late on Friday afternoon, he thought of the meadow, which now seemed too far away to reach. He knew he'd been heartless to end his friendship with Stan at the first sign of competition for his attention, but he was tired of having a heart. It had done nothing but maim him from within, and now he was hobbling along, barely able to stand with so many invisible injuries.

Nights had been horrible, long and full of odd sensations that he wasn't alone in the room, noises that jarred him awake. As darkness fell he could hear the chatter from the day market that lined the streets dying off, and new sounds came from farther off, in the yard of the yellow house where Butters lived. That was where they had set up the stage. Kyle had watched from the window.

It was the music that ate at him, though his mother coming up to inform him that they were taking Ike to see the show didn't help. She asked Kyle if he was well enough to go, but he was certain that he wasn't. He was marked somehow, and the others would see it on him if he went about trying to seem festive in their innocent way. He sat at his desk writing a sort of essay about why the original ending of Great Expectations was preferable, because art was meant to honestly convey the human experience in some meaningful fashion, and the human experience was one of misery, disappointment, and loneliness. Kyle was sure that this would eventually be true for everyone, and to construct a scene where the protagonist of a responsibly bleak novel was magically reunited with his childhood love was preposterous, insulting, and a trivialization of the realities of human suffering.

He got his mother's sherry from downstairs and began sipping at it, maddened by the music that wafted in past his closed window. There were banjos involved, and fiddles, guitars. He imagined Stan swinging Wendy about in her new dress, wishing that he had the good fortune to leave town with her and be adventurous. Kyle knew it was more likely she would stay, for him. She had looked at him a certain way during the poker game, and Stan was too smart about silent social cues not to notice. Kyle supposed Stan had noticed the way Kyle trembled when Stan took him into his arms to help him aim the rifle, too. He supposed Stan knew what that meant and pitied him the way he pitied Craig and Bebe.

He was so deep in a miasma of anger fueled by self-loathing that he didn't hear the footsteps until they were on the stairs, coming up to the second floor. It was the same plodding pace that Kyle had heard and felt in his dreams, only now he was awake, and certainly not drunk enough to hallucinate. He cast about the room for some sort of weapon, though he knew it would be no good. It was a spirit of this place come to snuff him out, because he didn't belong here, or anywhere.

The footsteps came closer, slow and methodical, heavy against the creaking hallway floorboards. Kyle was frozen in his chair at his desk, unable to move until he heard the knocking. It was soft, almost timid, as if whatever was out there already felt guilty about the mess it was about to make of Kyle.

"Kyle?"

It took him a moment to accept that it was Stan's voice on the other side of the door. It seemed more impossible than a ghost who wanted him dead, creeping into the house as soon as he was alone. He could not believe that Stan would have left the festival stage for him.

Kyle opened the door slowly, still nervous. He was taken aback by what Stan was wearing: a black jacket, a spray of purple flowers pinned over the pocket, and an unfamiliar hat, dark gray.

"Your hat," Kyle said, holding the door open only halfway.

"Oh, yeah." Stan touched the brim, then took it off. "I got it at the market today. They had all sorts of things. You should have – I mean, I got you something." He reached into the jacket and pulled out a small flask, brown leather with a strap that snapped over the mouthpiece. "I put – there's whiskey in it now, but I thought you could get spring water in it, or I could get it for you, to help you get better. If you're still sick."

"I'm still sick, I think," Kyle said, feeling it deeply in the glow of Stan's kindness, a fundamentally diseased lack of health. "But I appreciate the whiskey, thank you." He took the flask and walked into the room, letting the door swing open. Stan lingered in the doorway looking tortured until Kyle beckoned him in. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I spoke with your folks," Stan said. "They said you were up here. I didn't mean to come, I just. Did." He looked toward the window. "Oh, hey, yeah, I was hoping you could hear the music from here. They're real good, this band."

"Wait," Kyle said, but he could barely raise his voice above a whisper, and Stan opened the window, pushing the curtains aside. Kyle uncapped his new flask and drank from it. This was not the sort of thing that happened to him, or anyone.

"See?" Stan said, walking back to him. He'd put his hat back on, and it did suit him better than the older one had. It had the same wide brim, but this gray accented his hair better, and his eyes. "Hear it?" Stan said as he came to Kyle again, both of them standing in the middle of the room.

"What?" Kyle asked. He'd strained to hear so many frightening things since arriving here.

"The music," Stan said. "Gimme that." He took the flask from Kyle's hand, drank from it and went to set it on his desk. "Would you dance with me if I shut the curtains?" he asked when he turned to Kyle again.

"You're drunk," Kyle said, and he made himself break eye contact, laughing.

"A little," Stan said. He walked closer, just a few steps. "I don't like the way things are anymore," he said. "When you're not around. I thought I'd got used to them, what I have to do, and what the days are like all the time. Same nights, too, every night. I thought it was okay, but it ain't anymore, and you did that, so."

"Stan," Kyle said. He looked down at his hands, worrying them together. They were so different from Stan's, unused and elegant, embarrassingly well-kept. "Shut – shut the curtains."

Stan did, leaving the window open. The music had changed, and it was slower now, more delicate, one instrument carefully laced over the other. Certainly it was less jarring than what Kyle had heard before Stan was here. As Stan walked toward him Kyle realized that he was afraid that whatever was about to happen would hurt.

"Here," Stan said, and he touched Kyle's waist with both hands, pulling him half a step closer as they came together. It didn't hurt at all. "Like this," Stan said, and he used the top of Kyle's head to push his hat back, pressing their foreheads together.

"Why?" Kyle said, the word croaking out of him, an ugly thing. He put his hands on Stan's chest, gingerly, ready to push him away if he needed to.

"I don't know," Stan said. "Just, ever since I saw you that day. Ever since."

They kissed, swaying a little, in imitation of actual dancing. Stan tasted like beer and popcorn, caramel. Kyle's hands went from Stan's chest to his cheeks, Stan's breath stuttering against his when Kyle flicked his tongue across the tip of Stan's.

"I never thought," Kyle said when they pulled back to stare at each other, Kyle wide-eyed and Stan sort of sleepy-looking, blinking a lot. "When I came here, I never. Never thought I'd find someone like me."

"Huh," Stan said, and something strong in him faltered under Kyle's hands; he could feel it. "I never thought I'd find someone like me anywhere. Ever."

"But Craig—"

"No, that's not the same," Stan said. "It's not just – what you're looking for under someone's pants. Or skirts, um. It's this, see, it's this." His lips closed over Kyle's as he said so, and Kyle pressed his tongue against Stan's more confidently this time, moaning in answer when Stan did, nodding slow, because yes, this, he knew this. He'd never known it before this moment, never thought that he would, but now he was already an expert, fully aware of how rare and precious this was.

"I'm sorry," Kyle said when the kiss broke. "I was horrible to you, that Wendy girl—"

"Shhh," Stan said. He took hold of Kyle's curls, still gentle, but firm enough to bring a tug to mind.

"There's so much you don't know about me," Kyle said, horrified by all the things he wanted to say, the confessions that were still very close to the surface.

"I know you," Stan said, unblinking now. Kyle shivered in his arms, pressing closer. "I know you, I do," Stan said, and he kissed Kyle like he could prove it. Kyle felt it was true, as if he had nothing now to reveal. They stumbled across the room, dropping onto the bed when Kyle's legs bumped against it. As soon as Stan was seated Kyle crawled into his lap, straddling him, and just as he realized that the heat pressing against his own hard dick was Stan's, he heard his mother's voice through the open bedroom door, down in the front room, then Ike's squawking answer.

They sprang apart, breathless, and Kyle almost fell backward. Stan caught his arm, steadied him, and yanked him close as they heard the first footsteps on the stairs, Kyle's mother's heels.

"I want you every day," Stan said, his eyes burning down into Kyle's. "Please, just. Tell me I can have you."

"You can," Kyle said, and saying so made his knees soften, not quite buckling. Stan nodded and stepped away.

"Tomorrow," he said, and he eased the bedroom door open with the toe of his boot, buttoning his coat over his erection.

On the landing, they showed Kyle's parents the flask Stan had bought for him, and Stan explained about the healthful spring water, making a joke about the whiskey he'd substituted in the meantime.

"Just 'cause I wouldn't want to get lost in the woods at night," he said, and even Kyle's father laughed a little.

Kyle wanted to stumble after Stan, to grasp at his hands like a beggar, but he couldn't. He had to stand on the landing and watch him go, thinking: _tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow_.


	3. Chapter 3

After the way Stan had kissed him on the night of the festival, Kyle expected to be overwhelmed by Stan's unbridled passion the next time they met, but they were both shy and nervous when he arrived in the morning for his piano lesson. They were also both feeling a bit hungover, or anyway Kyle guessed that Stan was by his pale coloring. He had Stan play only soft music, and they smiled at each other when their fingers brushed on the keys. For a moment Kyle was afraid that what had happened the night before was forgotten or regretted, but as soon as Kyle's father went upstairs with a tray of breakfast for his mother, Stan leaned over to press a kiss to Kyle's cheek.

"You're feeling better?" Stan said, looking down at the keys again as Kyle moved closer on the bench, until their hips touched.

"Very much so," Kyle said, though he was bleary enough to want to avoid whiskey for the rest of the day. "I want - could we spend the whole day together? Do you have to go up to the mining camp?"

"Oh, hell no," Stan said, and he kissed Kyle's cheek again when he saw his fretful look. "No, I meant about working, I don't have to work today. Nobody in town is fit to on the day after the festival. It's like a holiday."

"Well, good," Kyle said, smiling, and Stan kissed him on the lips this time, just softly. They beamed at each other for half a second before looking up at the landing to make sure no one had come out of their rooms. "We have to be careful," Kyle said, whispering.

"I know," Stan said. "It'd kill my dad. He couldn't take another disappointment."

"Right," Kyle said, sort of hurt by that, though of course he understood. "If my parents - they know about me, a little. But of course they don't approve. It's a very sore spot for all of us, um. It's brought disgrace to my family in the past." He hadn't decided to say this, it had just tumbled out, but he was glad for it when Stan met his eyes again. He looked saddened by this news, not shocked.

"Want to go for a walk?" he asked.

"God, yes," Kyle said, and he dared a quick kiss, catching Stan on the corner of his lips. They both grinned, then laughed a little at each other's unconcealed glee. Kyle sort of liked this, sneaking touches quietly while his parents' breakfast utensils clicked against their plates upstairs, but he wanted to talk without fear of being overheard. He wanted to tell Stan so many things.

It was an overcast morning, but the temperature was pleasant, a cool breeze cutting through the usual daytime mugginess. Sparky had been waiting out on the front porch for Stan as usual, and he trotted along with them as they headed away from town. Kyle had to wonder what the dog would occupy himself with if Stan were to try anything more serious than kissing once they had the cover of the woods.

"Get spooked at all last night?" Stan asked as they approached the meadow. His fingers kept brushing against Kyle's, and Kyle was positively afloat with the knowledge that Stan longed to hold his hand.

"Last night, no," Kyle said. "Mostly I drank that whiskey you'd brought and laughed into my pillow like an idiot." He'd also jerked himself off, prior to that, but he wasn't yet bold enough to say so to Stan.

"You laughed?" Stan said, glancing at him.

"With delirious relief," Kyle said, and he touched Stan's hand deliberately, tickling his fingers over Stan's knuckles. Stan grinned and looked back over his shoulder.

"C'mon," he said, and they both started walking faster, almost running by the time they reached the woods. Sparky was excited about their sudden burst of energy, bounding ahead and looking back as if to egg them on. Stan ran toward the stream, throwing his hand out behind him, and Kyle took it. They held on tight as they ran deeper into the woods, until they couldn't hear the stream bubbling over the rocks. Stan was breathing hard, and he found a fat tree trunk to press Kyle against, his hat tumbling off when he leaned in to frame Kyle's ears with his elbows. They touched their foreheads together and breathed the same humid air, studying each other's eyes.

"I get so goddamn excited," Stan said. "With you. Just having you near."

"Yeah?" Kyle took Stan's hips and pulled them gently forward. Stan moaned and kissed Kyle's face all over, until he was laughing and arching up to lick at Stan's lips, his eyes sliding shut when he did. They sighed into each other, and Kyle felt Stan relax against him, pressing him more firmly against the tree.

"I've never done this," Stan said after Kyle had nudged him into deeper kisses, teasing Stan's tongue with his own until Stan lapped at him in answer.

"I have, only once," Kyle said, and his heart sunk, because he didn't want to spoil this moment with his shame and bad memories. "But, but it wasn't like this. I didn't care for him. Which isn't to say - it, ah. It was an older man. He sort of trapped me."

Stan's eyes darkened. Kyle felt all the hope in his chest tremble in anticipation of shattering, but Stan kissed him again, very softly, on his lips and then over the bridge of his nose.

"I hope you killed him for it," Stan said, and he seemed serious.

"I did, in a sense," Kyle said. "His life is - over, but I don't want to talk about him, not now. Please, just kiss me, I'd never have guessed that you don't do it often. You're so - it's so good," he said as Stan's lips closed over his again, and he moaned when Stan's tongue slipped between them.

Kyle's knees gave out when Stan moved down to kiss his neck, and Stan supported his elbows as they both sunk toward the ground, coming to a seat in the moss at the base of the tree. Stan put his back to the trunk and looked at Kyle sheepishly.

"In my lap?" he said, and Kyle hesitated. This was how he had been with Rodney at the beginning: invited to Rodney's office after hours, Kyle had been strictly his favorite pupil for weeks, until Rodney spread his legs late one evening and patted his thigh. All of Kyle's sexual firsts had taken place in that chair over the days that followed, while Rodney held him in his lap. "You don't have to," Stan said when Kyle hesitated. "We can - we could-"

"No, it's alright," Kyle said, and he straddled Stan's legs, resting his hands on Stan's shoulders while Stan gripped his waist. Stan looked up at him uncertainly. They were both flushed. "What if someone comes by, though?" Kyle asked.

"Sparky will bark," Stan said. "He can smell people coming a mile off. Animals, too." The dog was sniffing around the area they'd settled into, pausing occasionally to mark a tree. "You okay?" Stan asked when Kyle shifted in his lap. "We can slow it down if you want."

"No," Kyle said. "I mean, no, let's not slow down." He closed his eyes and pressed his face to Stan's, sighing at the feeling of Stan's hot cheek against his skin.

"I have to go slow, anyway," Stan said. "I'm, just. I hadn't even kissed a girl since I was twelve."

"Who was she?" Kyle asked, leaning back, and Stan laughed.

"A farmer's daughter," he said. "Caroline."

"Was she pretty?"

"I don't know, she was twelve. Skinny with pigtails. I think I knew what I was even then, even before she kissed me and I ran away."

"I always knew," Kyle said, and his hands slid to Stan's chest. Stan's heart was beating fast. "Even before I cared about kissing or any of that. I just knew I was different."

"Me too," Stan said.

"Did you know about me?" Kyle asked. "When we met that day? Like you know about Craig?"

"I don't know about Craig, it's just a guess."

"Oh, please, I was certain almost as soon as I saw him," Kyle said, and Stan laughed. His hands slid down a little, and Kyle pressed back into the touch, wanting Stan to squeeze his ass. "Answer me, though," Kyle said. "Did you know about me?"

"I didn't," Stan said. "I thought - something was different about you, yeah, but I thought it mighta just been where you're from, and how you talk. Then, you know. When the subject of Wendy came up. Then I thought, maybe."

"God," Kyle said, and he leaned down to hide his face against Stan's neck. "I'm sorry. I've never been like that before. I was a lunatic. I made myself ill!"

"It did kinda tick me off," Stan said, and he grinned when Kyle leaned back to boggle at him for saying so. "And then I thought, well, he's too stubborn to go back to the way things were unless I just grab him and kiss him. I thought you might slap me, though."

"Slap?" Kyle said, offended. "Not punch?"

"Well, yeah." Stan snickered, and Kyle tickled his fingers up Stan's sides vengefully, trying to get under his arms. Stan laughed and tipped over, squirming until he could grab Kyle's hands and hold them between his. Sparky trotted over to investigate, sniffing both of them with mild concern. Kyle liked the dog well enough, but he cringed away from Sparky's smell and his wet nose, curling into Stan's chest. "I'm alright, Spark," Stan said, and he reached over Kyle to give the dog a pat. "Got this here under control."

"Oh, do you?" Kyle said, scooting up to kiss Stan's neck.

"Uh-huh," Stan said, and he grinned when Kyle moved up to meet his eyes. Sparky sauntered off with a sniff, sounding slightly annoyed.

"I never thought I'd want to be under someone's control again," Kyle said. "But, with you." He pushed his leg up between Stan's, and Stan clamped his thighs around Kyle's.

"Tell me about it," Stan said. Kyle shook his head.

"I'm too happy right now to talk about that," he said. Stan released Kyle's hands and wrapped both arms around him, pulling him closer.

"I'm happy, too," Stan said. "Um, can you feel it?"

"Yes," Kyle said, and he laughed, moving his hips so that his erection bumped against Stan's again. Stan closed his eyes, a very soft noise sort of dying in the back of his throat.

"I don't know what men do," Stan said when he opened his eyes again. "I mean, I've heard lewd rumors-"

"Lewd rumors?" Kyle said, and he laughed hard, clutching at Stan when doing so brought their tented erections together again.

"Well, yeah," Stan said. "You know, um. Jokes about asses."

"No, of course I know," Kyle said. "I attended an all male boarding school, I know those jokes. It's just funny to hear you say 'lewd rumors.' I'm not sure why."

Stan rolled on top of him then, and Kyle's breathing stuttered, though he wasn't scared. The amount of trust he had in Stan was sort of staggering, and he was fairly sure that it had originated from the first moment he met Stan's eyes. There was so much kindness there, and now there was something else, too, a kind of bare need. Stan swallowed heavily, and Kyle could feel it, the muscles in Stan's stomach moving slightly, pressed to Kyle's. Suddenly his own mouth felt too wet, and he swallowed, too.

"I been thinking about you," Stan said, and Kyle knew he meant that he'd done so in relation to those lewd rumors about acts between men.

"In bed at night?" Kyle said, hoping Stan would blush. He did.

"Sometimes," Stan said. "But that – that ain't all there is to it."

"I know," Kyle said, though he didn't really. He'd just suspected.

"Ever since you came here I feel like I'm not so stuck," Stan said.

"Me too," Kyle said. "I mean, since I met you."

"But you weren't stuck."

"Who says I wasn't?" Kyle shifted a little under Stan, and smiled when Stan's eyes got cloudy. Just having Stan lay on top of him was making Kyle throb with contentment, as if he'd already come. "I was stuck," Kyle said. "In that school, and worse, in my own head. I feel like I'm really alive now, somehow. Like this is really happening."

"Yeah," Stan said. He leaned down to kiss Kyle again, and groaned with annoyance when Sparky appeared to thrust his face between them. "Everything's alright," Stan said, and he gave Sparky's ears a scratch. "Go on, let me do this."

"This?" Kyle said, and he laughed.

"This," Stan said. He clamped his thighs more tightly around Kyle's, and Kyle felt moisture pooling against the crotch of his drawers, coating the head of his cock. Sparky had trotted off again. Kyle shivered when he thought of how vulnerable they were like this, lying in the woods with their cocks hard, pressed together.

"You can move," Kyle said, and he tried to roll his hips. The friction was imperfect but good, and they both moaned, Stan's head dropping down. He hid his face against Kyle's neck and pressed himself against Kyle, slow and firm, like Kyle was sleeping and might wake if Stan let his hips buck the way he wanted to. Stan was beginning to tremble, and the trembling increased when Kyle mouthed at his neck.

"Goddamn," Stan said, whispering. His hips moved a little faster. He sat up on his elbows and looked down at Kyle, still rolling his hips. "This okay? This what you want?"

"I want—" Kyle was beginning to lose his mind with lust, humping up against Stan shamelessly. This always happened when he was close, a lack of self-preservation. "I want – you to put your fingers inside me, sometime. That's what men do. Some men. It feels so good."

Stan came then, as Kyle had suspected he would. Kyle held him and pet the back of his neck as he shuddered and sighed, his mouth hot on Kyle's neck. Kyle had never really liked being taught, when it came to this. He wanted to be the instructor, wanted to gently take Stan through all the necessary lessons, and he wanted to kiss Stan's cheeks to calm him while he sunk down onto Stan's cock. Kyle came, thinking of this, jamming himself up against Stan's thigh. Stan was still shaking, but he had mostly recovered as Kyle's orgasm wound down, and he pressed kisses to Kyle's closed eyes.

"You're amazing," Stan said, whispering.

"Thank you," Kyle said, and they both laughed.

The sun came out a few hours later, after they had been wandering for some time, stopping occasionally to fall against a tree to kiss or sink to the ground and just hold each other, already addicted to this closeness. Stan had apples and a hunk of hard cheese in the bag he'd brought to his piano lesson, and when they stopped by a creek bed to have lunch, Kyle wondered if Stan had brought the food because he'd anticipated this, a full afternoon of walking aimlessly through the woods, their hands clasped together.

"Are we safe out here without your gun?" Kyle asked. "What if a bear came or something?"

"Bears don't really hang around down here," Stan said. "Even this is too close to the town for them. When they're real hungry, in spring, sometimes they venture out, but right now they're getting ready for their winter sleep. And they got plenty to eat that ain't us."

"Has anyone in town been attacked by one?" Kyle asked, and he moved closer to Stan, pressing himself to Stan's side. Stan put his arm around Kyle and kissed his forehead.

"Not that I know of," he said. "Mountain lions is what you got to worry about, but they're real high up. The bears are scared of us, mostly. If you punch a black bear in the face he'll just go running off like a crying dog."

"That can't be true," Kyle said, though he wanted to believe it. He finished his cheese and snuggled up closer to Stan, breathing in the scent of him. Stan smelled like sweat, come, and aged cheddar. It was a fantastic combination, Kyle thought.

"Well, that's what I heard," Stan said, sounding uncertain now. He rubbed Kyle's side and wrapped his other arm around him, too. "I'll keep you safe," he said.

"I know," Kyle said. "I wish – God, do I wish you could be with me at night. In that room. I'm still not much of a believer about spirits or whatever, but there's a bad feeling in that place."

"You should switch rooms," Stan said. "Just let the ghosts have it, if they want it so bad."

"The other rooms scare me even more! I picked the least offensive one, trust me."

"You could come to the ranch," Stan said. "If it ever gets real bad, late at night. Come get in bed with me."

"Ha," Kyle said, his chest aching at the thought. He'd only been to Stan's house a few times, and despite Randy's skulking presence it was quite cozy, a little cottage on a plot of land that would be fit for grazing animals, if they had any.

"I'm serious," Stan said, giving him a shake. "My dad's passed out by eight o'clock, most nights. Damn, if I could just bring you home from the bar with me."

"Don't talk like this," Kyle said. "It makes me too sad." He clutched at Stan's shirt and closed his eyes, beginning to feel like he could sleep. They'd both come in their pants again before lunch, Kyle propped against a tree and Stan holding him there, Kyle's legs wrapped around his waist.

"Maybe if my dad died," Stan said. Kyle laughed and tugged on his collar.

"Stan!"

"No – I mean, in the future! When he's old. If you'll still, um. Be here."

"I've got nowhere else to go," Kyle said. "And this is beginning to feel like my home. Which is so odd. It's you, though. You make me feel like I'm not crazy after all."

Stan kissed him, and Kyle was suddenly aware of his own terrible cheese breath, but he put it aside and kissed Stan more deeply, until he was being pressed down into the moss, laughing tiredly into Stan's mouth. He was thinking up ways to try to coax Stan into taking his pants off when they heard a tree branch snap somewhere off in the woods. Stan sat up and turned in the direction of the noise. Nearby, Sparky had a similar reaction, lifting his head from his paws.

"Everything alright?" Kyle asked after they'd waited for several long seconds and heard nothing more.

"I think so," Stan said. "If it'd been somebody, or some animal, Sparky would have gone after it." He glanced over at Sparky, who was still tense but not particularly alarmed.

"This is hopeless," Kyle said, and he sat up. "We'll never know that we're really alone out here. We've been so reckless already."

"Shh," Stan said, and he gave Kyle a kiss, nipping at his bottom lip a little. "I know I can't prove it, but I think something out here will protect us. Don't worry too much."

"Oh, but that's mad!" Kyle said, grabbing for Stan's shirt again. "I've just barely escaped being charged for sodomy once, I can't go through that again. And you – I could never bear it if they turned against you, your friends, your father—"

"Tell me about before," Stan said. "In the city. I want to know what happened to you, if you want to tell me."

"Well, I don't, really," Kyle said, and he groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. "But then again, I do. I've been so alone with it, like I was living in a nightmare that no one around me knew I was having."

"He hurt you?" Stan said, his hand tightening on Kyle's side. "This man?"

"Oh, God, I don't know. Yes, but it's complicated. I was very flattered by him at first. Then I found him disgusting, for wanting – what he wanted, but I'd go back for more whenever I could. I was disgusted with myself, too. It wasn't like this," he said, peeking at Stan from between his fingers.

"I always thought I'd hate myself for trying it," Stan said. "But I guess I was picturing Craig, or some guy who'd let me do it if I paid him. I'm not sorry, though, about you. I just want to—" He grabbed Kyle and hugged him hard, his hat tumbling off as he did. Kyle put his arms around Stan and moaned, rubbing his back.

"I'm very glad you never tried it with Craig," Kyle said.

"Oh, I wouldn't have. His teeth are all fucked up."

"I'm sorry I've ever done it with someone else," Kyle said, and he pulled back to nudge Stan's cheek with his nose. "Although, if I hadn't, I never would have come here and met you. We were caught, you see. Me and this man. I made it out like he forced me, and I don't think that was quite a lie. But I was still disgraced by it. It was in the newspapers – I had to give testimony."

"Shit," Stan said, drawing Kyle against him again. Kyle's voice had begun to shake, but he wasn't going to cry. He held on to Stan tightly, pinching his eyes shut against Stan's shoulder. "I'm so glad you're here," Stan said, and Kyle swallowed down what might have been a sob, nodding.

"It's like I woke up from the nightmare," Kyle said. He kissed Stan's neck in nervous little pecks, afraid to look into his eyes when he was feeling this broken open. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, but it was intense, his skin prickling all over as if adjusting to a hot bath. In a moment he would relax into it, letting the warmth enclose him. Stan hummed under his breath and rocked back and forth a bit, as if Kyle was a child who needed soothing. Kyle found that he didn't mind this treatment, and he felt himself go limp a little at a time, his shoulders sinking down and his hands uncurling at Stan's sides. He actually slept like that, just for a few minutes, slumped against Stan, exhausted.

It was late in the afternoon by the time they left the woods, and Kyle was hungry for something more than apples and cheese. He took Stan back to his house for thick slices of the bread his mother had tried baking a few days before. It was too dense and a bit chewy, but with lots of butter and honey it was quite good. They ate at the bar in the front room, which the Broflovskis hadn't quite decided what to do with, in terms of practical use. Kyle heard footsteps on the stairs behind him as they were cleaning up the crumbs they'd left, and he hoped it would be his mother or at least Ike, but it was his father.

"Feeling better?" he said.

"Yes," Kyle said, though he was flushing at the moment, queasy with fear that his father would smell the sex on his clothes.

"And how are you today?" Gerald asked, looking to Stan.

"Fine, sir," Stan said. He was blushing, too, and Kyle knew he was thinking of what they'd done in the woods, and the residue left behind inside their drawers. "And yourself?"

"Oh, I'm alright," Gerald said. "This posting hasn't been as challenging as I'd thought it might be, which is a relief and a burden, because it leaves me with so much free time. Do you read?" he asked, and Kyle had to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

"Of course he reads," he said before Stan could. "I've loaned him my old school books. We've had better discussion about them than I had with my classmates at that school." It was the only way he would refer to Trinity now: that school.

"That's good to hear," Gerald said, and he patted Kyle's back. "Stay for dinner if you're free, Stanley."

"Sure, thanks," Stan said, and Kyle wanted to give him some signal that he shouldn't, though he wasn't sure what he was afraid of. Mostly he was terrified that his mother would take one look at the two of them and know everything. "Have I got time to go home and wash up?"

"Oh, yes," Gerald said. "We eat a good deal later than most people here do, I think. And now you boys have had some of that bread, so you won't be hungry for a while. That bread sits in the stomach like cement, I find. Alright." He clapped Kyle on the shoulder. "I'm going to sit out on the porch with my book. Mr. Stotch seems to think that just the sight of me intimidates the citizens into order."

He went out onto the porch, and Kyle groaned. "Sorry," he said. "You really – you don't have to eat dinner with us if you don't want to."

"Why wouldn't I want to?" Stan asked.

"I don't know. Do you think it would be very conspicuous if you came up to my room for a moment? I want to show you the closet."

"I think we could swing it," Stan said, glancing the front windows. Gerald was on the porch, seated in one of the rocking chairs and flipping through his book. "But, you know," he said, moving closer. "I think – I just don't want to be away from you yet."

"I know," Kyle said. He grabbed for Stan's wrist and quickly released it, his lips shaking when he smiled. "So, come up. Let me show you the chamber of horrors."

They walked up the stairs quietly, as if they were sneaking up on someone. Kyle felt like it had been weeks since Stan had last been in his room, but it was just last night, the flask Stan had brought him emptied and lying on Kyle's desk. Stan went for that first, touched it and grinned. Kyle wanted to shut the door, but he knew that he shouldn't.

"So?" he said, standing in the middle of the room. The bedsheets were still mussed, and Kyle was embarrassed by the pajamas that were rumpled at the end of the bed, though Stan had seen him wearing them the night before. "Do you feel anything?" Kyle asked.

"Yeah," Stan said. "Nothing bad, though. I was too nervous last night to take it in, but this is where you sleep, and dress, and. It feels kinda sacred."

"That's one way of looking at it," Kyle said, and he went to the window to open it. "But how about the closet? Have a look. That's where the books fell, and the one – the one that fell open was the book I gave to Craig. The particular book from the class taught by that person who. Trapped me." He turned from the window and saw Stan watching him, his hat in his hand. They both looked to the closet.

"Hmm," Stan said when he'd opened the closet door. Nothing happened, but Kyle felt nervous when Stan walked inside to examine the interior, as if the door might slam shut like a mouth closing, swallowing him up. "Well," Stan said, stepping out again, "Tell you the truth, I'm better about sensing these things outdoors."

"Oh, that's fitting," Kyle said, wanting to swoon into Stan's arms. He settled for walking a little closer, and they smiled at each other, a nervous energy trembling between them. "I don't think I'll ever see a tree without thinking of you, now."

"Shit," Stan said, his smile widening. "That was so. You were so—"

"Yes, it was fantastic," Kyle said. He hadn't been sure if it was his idea or Stan's, and it had felt simultaneous, Kyle sort of jumping up just as Stan hoisted him, guiding Kyle's legs around around his waist. "I hope we'll do it again," Kyle said, quietly. "Often."

"Every day, if you're willing," Stan said, and he moved a little closer. "Do you have the bad feeling now?" he asked. "About this room?"

"No. And I didn't last night, when we – danced."

"Goddamn," Stan said, whispering. "I want to take you to that bed right now."

"Ah – you should go home and clean up," Kyle said, and he turned away. His heart was racing, and he couldn't stop picturing his mother just outside the door with a basket of laundry, hearing this. Or, worse: Ike eavesdropping, plotting his demise.

"Oh – okay." Stan said. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, my God." Kyle turned to him again. "I want that, too. But we must, you know. Mustn't, that is."

"Sure, I know. Just sayin'." Stan leaned down to peck Kyle on the cheek, and he grinned at Kyle's scandalized expression. "Sorry," he whispered, and he turned to go. Kyle went to the window to watch him jog off, Sparky trotting along with him.

"You don't have to _run_ ," Kyle said softly, touching the windowpane. He was glad, though, and he hoped Stan would hurry back, too. As soon as he turned around the room seemed sinister again, poised to devour him. He grunted with annoyance and went to shut the door. His cock was half hard from Stan's sentiment about the bed, and he hid under the blankets to take his pants down just enough to stroke it, closing his eyes to shut out the watchful presence of the room. "Stan," he said, and even mumbling his name seemed to dispel whatever haunted him. Kyle came into his hand and rolled onto his side without even cleaning himself properly, positively filthy now. He still smelled of moss and creek water, come, and cheese. He just needed a brief nap, then he would make himself presentable for dinner. He pulled his pillow into his arms and nuzzled it, wanting Stan.

His sleep was blissfully dreamless until he woke a bit and readjusted himself, slipping under again. Now his mind was half-awake while the rest of him slumbered, and his thoughts zipped about uncomfortably, from scenarios where he got caught with Stan to bad memories of Rodney telling him that he took cock better than any student he'd ever had. Just before he woke he dreamed that he was sitting in the room, watching himself sleep. Dusk had fallen, and the light through the window was still warm but quite dim, and eerily still. There was no wind; the curtains were motionless around the window, hanging like dead things. Kyle's lungs seized up when his eyes panned to the corner between the far wall and the closet. There was a man there, watching him, eyes wide and almost glowing. There was something very off about him, but Kyle jerked awake in horror before he could determine what it was.

He sat up, his skin prickling as he turned to look at the corner where the man had been. There was nothing there, but he still felt watched, as if he'd seen the invisible world in his sleep. He hurried to collect his robe from the bureau and fled the room, heading for the bathroom at the end of the hall. He was so shaken and disoriented that he almost crashed into his mother on the way there.

"Bubbeh!" she said, frowning. She was carrying an armload of clean laundry – bedsheets. "Are you alright? You're so pale!"

"I'm fine," Kyle said, moving around her. "A bath will wake me up."

"If you wait a moment I'll make you a hot one. Are you sure you feel well enough to have your friend over for dinner?"

"Yes, sure," Kyle said, and he frowned when he heard Stan's laugh from downstairs. "He's already back?" he said, whispering now.

"Yes, he's downstairs with your brother," Sheila said. "I didn't want to wake you, you've been so ill. So do you want a hot bath or not?"

Kyle did, though it was excruciating to know that Ike was downstairs saying God knew what to Stan. He supposed Stan knew all of his major secrets now anyway, but there was something about Ike that bespoke sabotage, Kyle thought. They'd been close as youngsters, but Ike had greatly resented that Kyle was sent away to school when he was not, and had been vile to him ever since.

In his bath, Kyle again felt overly alone and a bit vulnerable, but he could hear his mother walking about as she fitted the beds with new sheets, and he could hear Stan's voice from downstairs, distantly, along with Ike's squawking pitch. He hadn't realized how accustomed he'd gotten to having others around at all times; the chatter of the boys' dormitories almost never ceased at Trinity, and even after lights out there was shuffling and sniffling, the comfort of his classmates nearby. Kyle had thought he'd hated that, and them, and that had been part of why he'd fled to the pretense of refuge that Rodney had offered. Now it unnerved him to have his own room. It seemed to be a place where he was always waiting to receive an unwanted visitor.

He dressed quickly after his bath, checking the corner of the room where the man had stood in his dream. There was nothing there, just a bad feeling. Something about the man in the dream had been distorted, missing, but Kyle couldn't conjure a clear picture of him now. In the dream it had only taken a brief glimpse to know that the man was there to hurt him, and also that he was waiting for something, patient.

Kyle went downstairs without a jacket, his hair still damp. Stan was at the table with Ike, playing chess. Stan's hat was hanging on the chair, and he was wearing a nice shirt that Kyle had never seen before, very pale blue and a little too big for him.

"I'm winning," Ike said when Kyle sat beside Stan.

"I don't really know how to play," Stan said. Kyle shrugged.

"I hate this game," he said, and it was true, because Ike always beat him.

The dinner was fine, though Kyle was tense about some of the questions his parents asked. Stan had such a good humor that by the end of the meal Kyle suspected that even Ike had taken to him. Sheila brought a ham bone out for Sparky after they'd finished. Kyle caught himself thinking that, now that his family had accepted Stan as he had, he would be allowed to bring Stan up to his room to protect him during the night. But of course they hadn't accepted anything the way Kyle would have liked them to, and Kyle had caught his mother giving him a few long looks during dinner, when Stan was distracted by conversation.

"Do you think it's wrong?" Kyle asked when they were on their way to the Dark Horse. They were late, and the streets were mostly empty, the fog already gathering.

"What do you mean?" Stan asked. "This - what we done today?"

"Yes, this. That."

"Mhm, I don't know." Stan looked up at the sky. The moon was waning, just a sliver. "I guess I always thought I did, but then, today, I didn't think that."

"So what do you think now? Right here, in this moment."

"I think I want to kiss you," Stan said, keeping his voice low. He smiled when Kyle peeked at him. "Even at dinner, I was thinking that."

"I'm sorry my mother can't really cook," Kyle said. He found that he was glad to have the subject of their moral worthiness dropped. Ultimately, he didn't care. The nearness of Stan felt too right, so ideal.

"Don't say she can't cook," Stan said. "I liked it."

"Oh, fine, but it was so salty."

"I'm a pretty good cook myself," Stan said, and he poked Kyle in the side. "I'll cook for you sometime. Deer stew or something."

"Don't you call it venison when you eat it?"

"Well, yeah. I just can't stop thinking of them as deer, though."

The card table was crowded enough to push them close together, and Kyle was glad to have Wendy at his other side, his anxiety about her now all but gone. She was sharp-tongued and as loud as any of the boys, and Kyle laughed when she muttered asides about Cartman or Kenny in his ear, ignoring their suspicious stares.

"Are you letting Princess Union steal your woman, Marsh?" Cartman asked at one point, when Kyle and Wendy were cackling about Clyde, who was drunk and losing badly at cards, scratching his head with confusion.

"I am not his woman," Wendy said, rescuing Stan from responding. "You're just jealous that you'll never have the company of a lady yourself. Even your mother's former employees won't see you."

"You don't know my life!" Cartman said, and he slapped Butters away when he tried to calm him with shoulder pats.

"Please," Wendy said. "I've known you since infancy. And you haven't changed. You still need someone to wipe your ass for you - Butters, leave him be, he's not worth the trouble."

"Hey, c'mon," Stan said. "Let's play again. Deal," he said, elbowing Craig.

"Someday, bitch," Cartman said, pointing his finger at Wendy. "You're gonna get what's coming to you, and I'm gonna laugh."

"Call her that again and we're gonna have words, me and you," Stan said. He looked suddenly dangerous, and Cartman was sinking in on himself, cowed. Kyle waited to feel jealous, but he didn't. He felt something more like pride, and vague arousal.

"Oh, please, Stanley," Wendy said, waving her hand at him. "He can say whatever he likes. Veiled threats now, too? You've never riled me, Eric, and you never will."

It was odd to hear Cartman called by his first name, and Kyle felt the energy at the table was a bit off for the rest of the evening, overly tense. He was glad to leave an hour or so later, and glad that he walked out with only Stan at his side, Butters and Kenny having left earlier. The fog had grown so thick that Kyle wanted to try holding Stan's hand, since he could barely see three feet in front of him and no one seemed to be around. He didn't dare it; they had already been so bold, and it had barely been a full day since they'd first touched.

"I hate the thought of you walking home alone," Kyle said when they reached his front porch.

"I won't be alone," Stan said, and he patted his thigh, signaling for Sparky. The dog had been asleep on the porch near his gnawed up ham bone, and he roused tiredly when Stan asked him to, picking up the bone before going to sit at Stan's feet.

"Right, well, be careful," Kyle said. He wanted to kiss Stan so badly that he felt he was dying from it. Stan seemed to be suffering, too, swaying on his feet a little as he leaned toward Kyle, then back again.

"Come to church tomorrow," Stan said. "Just so we can sit together in back."

"Fine," Kyle said. "You don't think - we couldn't just have a long walk in the woods again?"

"Too many walks in the woods and people will start wondering," Stan said. Kyle nodded. Of course he was right. "But as long as we're hunting together after I get off work, that's something. Hey, don't look so down," he said, and Kyle tried not to. "If we're patient," Stan said, whispering, "They'll be a night when you can stay with me. I promise."

"It's no good, though," Kyle said. "I'll just end up wanting that every night. I already want that. I had the worst dream, earlier, Stan, it was so frightening."

"Yeah?" Stan reached for him, but the gesture died in mid-air, his hands dropping back to his sides. "What happened?"

"Nothing, and that was the worst part somehow. There was just this - thing, in the corner of my room, staring at me. It looked like a man but it wasn't one, not quite. It was waiting for something."

Stan stared at Kyle for a moment, and Kyle was afraid he would burst into laughter after this solemn pause, but he didn't.

"If something like that bothers you, you gotta tell it to get lost," Stan said. "We should all come over and help, have one of them seance things. Banish it. When's the next time your folks are going out?"

"I don't know," Kyle said, and he groaned. "I don't think - I'm not actually in danger, of course. It just disrupts my sleep. It's probably to do with my past, you know, all this stale anxiety. It'll pass."

"Still, a seance could be a good time," Stan said, and Kyle snorted.

"It would be fun to scare Butters," he said. They both grinned, and Kyle had to stuff his hands in the pockets of his jacket to keep himself from grabbing Stan and hugging him hard.

"Dream about me instead," Stan said. "I'll try to find you in my sleep. You now about projection?"

"I don't think so, no."

"It's something monks do. Eastern monks, I mean. While they're sleeping, they can send their spirits places, on purpose. I'll send mine your way, alright? How's that?"

"Oh, Christ, don't go separating your soul from your body on my behalf," Kyle said, though he didn't really believe that Stan, or anybody, actually could. Still, any attempt seemed like a form of bad luck. "That sounds ghastly, like your spirit would be in danger of being - I don't know, snatched up if you let it loose."

"I never considered that," Stan said, and he frowned. "Well, just think of me. Think of me, alright?"

"God! Of course I will." Kyle grinned and tugged on the end of Stan's sleeve. "Think of me, too."

That night, Kyle was successful in avoiding the bad dream about the corner of the room. He was not able to guide himself into nice dreams about Stan, however. His subconscious mind returned to Trinity, and in the dream he shared his dorm with the people from the Dark Horse, including Wendy. Kyle asked her again and again why Stan wasn't there, and when he would come, until she finally shushed him angrily.

"Stan isn't coming," she said. "He's projected himself. He's gone."

She later revealed to him that Stan's body was still present, alive but comatose on a table in the music room. He was fish white and expressionless, his eyes closed. There was a plaque on the wall that memorialized the fact that his soul had escaped, forever lost.

It was a far more unsettling dream than the one about the man in the corner, and Kyle went to church looking rather disheveled the following morning, anxious to see Stan. He appeared, soul intact, and they sat together in the back as planned, sharing a hymnal, their elbows touching. Kyle tracked Stan's every breath and heard not a word of the sermon.

The following weeks were exhilarating and exhausting, but the joy of being alone with Stan was well worth all the fretting and longing that went along with it. Kyle was constantly afraid of being caught with his pants down in the woods, but he was unwilling to be cautious enough to forgo what they did they there, desperate couplings that always felt as if they'd come after years of separation. He felt virginal with Stan, as if they were both discovering all the things they did for the first time, together. It was as if Kyle had never beheld a real penis before, and he was in awe of the details, Stan's thickness and heat, his taste. Stan lasted maybe ten seconds when Kyle first took him in his mouth, after some time spent licking him all over, trying not to obsess too obviously over the texture of his foreskin. When Stan came he fell to his knees and crawled into Kyle's arms like he had been frightened by the force of his own pleasure. Kyle felt rather proud of himself, and he held Stan tightly, rubbed his back, and whispered that he'd tasted sweet. It wasn't sweetness, exactly, but to Kyle it came off that way, filtered through his love for Stan. He was labeling it that now, and it gave him a nervous thrill every time he thought of it this way: love, he was in love with Stan, deeply.

All of this was shadowed by Kyle's nightmares, which he couldn't shake, even after Stan had given him his mother's gold cross necklace to wear to bed as a protective charm. Kyle didn't like wearing it, because it reminded him too much of his charade at Trinity, and he returned it when it proved ineffective. He hadn't meant for this to hurt Stan's feelings, but he got the sense that he had, and asked if Stan had any other charms he would be willing to loan.

"Because I do want something of yours," Kyle said. They were having their hunt, a dead rabbit already bundled up inside Stan's bag. Kyle was beginning to associate the smell of animal blood with sex, which was slightly worrying. "When I'm alone at night - maybe just something that smells like you?"

"Like me?" Stan said. "Or like _me_?" He grabbed his crotch, and laughed when Kyle shoved him.

"Right, well," Kyle said, "My life has been strange enough to warrant this, maybe. A come-soaked talisman to protect me from ghosts. Christ, it's come to this." He glared at Stan when he laughed. "No pun intended."

Stan grabbed him then, hoisting him at the waist and carrying him deeper into the woods. Kyle laughed and squirmed, and, as usual, Sparky was perturbed by their roughhousing and came over to investigate.

"How about I just mark your clothes?" Stan said when they fell together onto a bed of leaves that were newly down from the trees, clean and mostly orange, from an oak overhead. The air was still warm until sundown, but the autumn chill was approaching steadily. "Hey, hey," Stan said when Sparky tried to involve himself, licking Kyle's cheek until he laughed and took shelter against Stan's chest. "You lonely or something?" Stan asked, scratching Sparky's ears. "Hmm? I think he's jealous of you," Stan said. "Or of me. You know, my dad tried to breed him and he wouldn't have it. I think he's an anomaly, like us."

"Ugh, Stan! Don't say that. It makes him watching us worse."

"He doesn't watch, really - go on, Spark, go stand guard."

The dog obeyed, and Kyle moaned, wiping at his cheek, annoyed by the slobber. Stan got his kerchief out and wet it with water from his canteen. He used it to clean Kyle's face, taking care with even the places where Sparky hadn't licked him.

"There," he said when he was finished, Kyle smiling up at him. "Now you're fit to be had."

"Have me, then," Kyle said, putting his arms up over his head. Stan went for his mouth first, one hand pushing into Kyle's hair, the other going to his jaw, guiding the kiss. They usually laughed a little at the beginning, and Kyle was always a bit jumpy, too, turning to survey the rustling leaves while Stan sucked at his neck, leaving marks only where Kyle's shirt collars could hide them.

"Hey," Stan said, speaking softly, and Kyle turned to face him again, prepared to apologize for being distracted by their surroundings. "Um," Stan said, and he bumped his nose against Kyle's, a boyish thing he did when he was uncertain. "You said, that first time. Do you really want, um. My fingers? Like you said?"

"Oh," Kyle said, and he shuddered underneath Stan, from his shoulders down to his calves. "Ah, yes. But you'd have to bring supplies. Something, you know. Slick."

"I have Vaseline," Stan said. "Would that work?"

"What are you doing with Vaseline?" Kyle asked. "Have you been planning this or something?" He was smirking, watching Stan's face turn red. Stan's expression remained serious, and he grunted when Kyle leaned up to kiss his cheeks.

"Course I been planning," Stan said. "I want to do all the things you like. Even that."

"Even? You don't think you'll like it?"

"I don't know," Stan said, shifting. "Sorta hard to get your mind around at first, isn't it? I mean, you grow up thinking the ass is for one thing, right?"

"Ugh, don't say it like that," Kyle said, and he sat up, scooting out from underneath Stan. "C'mon, let's at least find a tree to hide behind. I'll teach you a thing or two."

They found a large tree that seemed almost familiar to Kyle, moss growing on the trunk. He was beginning to feel more comfortable in the woods, though he would certainly be lost without Stan and Sparky, and he was still on edge whenever he first unzipped his pants. Stan seemed tense as he sat down at the base of the tree, Kyle in his lap, and Kyle took some time to kiss him, petting his cheeks until he relaxed under Kyle's touch.

"I'm clean," Kyle said, flushing. "If that's what you're worried about."

"Oh - shit, no," Stan said, and he turned so red that Kyle was certain he had indeed worried about that. "I'm just, ah. Well, I sorta tried it? On myself? And it hurt like a bitch."

"Poor thing," Kyle said, petting him again. "You just - you have to know how to work up to it properly. And maybe some just don't like it. I won't be sad if I can't do it to you, um. I just happen to like it, myself."

Stan sighed, and they kissed for a bit longer. They were both hard, rubbing together in a leisurely fashion. Kyle was surprised that he felt so calm, when this had scared him during his evenings with Rodney, every time. He had craved it, but he had never trusted Rodney not to hurt him.

"Here," Kyle said, trying to keep his voice gentle, and he unzipped his pants, taking himself out. Stan did the same, hurrying to press their cocks together in his palm. They both moaned and twitched, their kisses growing sloppy as they humped against each other.

"That's so good," Stan said, his eyelashes fluttering on Kyle's cheek.

"Mhmm, yes." Kyle put his hand around Stan's to slow his pace. Stan always came quickly, which Kyle took as a kind of compliment, but he hoped he could train him to hold back a little. "It feels good because, well, it's warm and just, ah, God, the shape of you, and you're so - but, listen, hey, look at me." Stan did, bashfully pulling his gaze from their erections. "It also feels good, I think, because I feel close to you. Like, we're sharing something sacred. You know?"

"God, yeah," Stan said, nodding hard, his hands going to Kyle's waist. He squeezed Kyle there, and kissed his face in frantic little pecks. "I can't believe I get to touch you like this. Still can't believe it."

"I know," Kyle said, because he felt the same way. Every day, when they reunited in the meadow, he would be a bit cautious at first, as if he might have imagined rolling about with Stan the day before. "That's why some people like this other type of connection. Because - part of you would be inside me. You'd be feeling, um. Something secret. And vulnerable. And I'd want you to. I mean, I do want you to." Kyle had felt in control of this speech at the start, but now he was babbling, losing himself to thoughts of Stan's fingers working inside him, stroking his walls to loosen him. He loved Stan's fingers, how different they were from his own, and he loved Stan's cock for the same reason. He longed to have Stan inside him that way, too, but for some reason he didn't want to say so, not yet. Part of it was that he was afraid of doing that outdoors.

"Alright," Stan said, going for his bag. "I'll, um. I'll just get me the Vaseline, here-"

"We don't have to do this yet," Kyle said, though Stan was the one who had suggested it. Stan shook his head.

"You got me so hard now," he said, snapping his eyes back to Kyle's. "I wanna - do this, feel you."

"Mhmm," Kyle said, and he went for Stan's neck, the smell of his skin making Kyle want to nip at him. He did, only softly, and Stan pushed his hand up under Kyle's shirt to stroke the small of his back. Kyle reached back to take Stan's wrist, and Stan's breath paused when Kyle guided his hand down into his drawers, pressing it over his ass.

"I hadn't put the Vaseline on yet," Stan said. He sounded like he was about to get choked up from nerves alone. Kyle licked over his bobbing Adam's apple and kissed his way up along the line of Stan's jaw, moving toward his ear.

"Just feel it first," Kyle said, whispering. "There's a lot of - ah." He hesitated, because Rodney had said this to him once, but it was true, and arousing, Kyle thought. "There's a lot of sensitivity there, on the outside. It's very nice to, um. Have it just touched."

"Jesus," Stan said, exhaling, and Kyle held in an anxious laugh. He held his breath, too, when Stan's fingers dipped lower, parting him a little. Stan was shaking, so Kyle held him with both arms, nibbling at his ear. "That's good," Kyle whispered when Stan finally touched him where he was burning to be felt, every nerve tingling. "So - so good, yeah. Just like that, rub - rub it like that, mhmm-hmm."

Kyle melted onto Stan's chest, pushing back against his fingers. Stan's breath was ragged, and his mouth was very wet when Kyle moved up to kiss him.

"You want to be in there?" Kyle asked, pulling back to meet Stan's eyes. "Want to feel it? Inside?"

"Mph," Stan said, apparently unable to speak, but he nodded emphatically.

"Here we go," Kyle said, reaching for the Vaseline. He was shaking, too, mostly in his hands. He wasn't frightened; he was shaking with need, wanting to be penetrated and stretched, wanting to see how Stan's eyes would change when he felt how hot and tight he was. Stan removed his hand and let Kyle apply the Vaseline to his fingers, slicking only two of them. He gave Stan a prim kiss on the lips when he was finished. "Go on," he said.

"Kyle," Stan said, like Kyle's name was a breath he'd been holding. He pulled Kyle to him and kissed him hard, one arm wrapped around Kyle's shoulders while his other hand sunk back down into his pants.

"Go slow," Kyle said, suddenly very aware of his pounding heartbeat. Stan nodded, looking almost drowsy when his slick fingers dipped down between Kyle's cheeks again.

"So fucking soft," Stan said, his thumb digging in to the fleshiest part of Kyle's ass.

"I wish I could show you," Kyle said. "Everything. I wish I could - stretch out somewhere for you with nothing on, just lie there and let you touch anywhere you want."

"Jesus, fuck," Stan said, and he gasped as his fingertip pushed in a little. "Shit. Sorry."

Kyle grinned and shook his head, his cheek pressed to Stan's. He couldn't be sorry, exactly, because his fingertip was still there, just barely inside.

"Deeper, please," Kyle said, and Stan groaned, jerking underneath him. Kyle almost felt like he should apologize then. He hadn't meant to make him come yet.

"Sorry," Stan said, his cheeks burning under Kyle's kisses. "Sorry, goddamn, just-"

"Don't be sorry, it's a lot to take in. Just keep going, mhm? Yeah." He sighed and rested his cheek on Stan's shoulder, closing his eyes as his finger slid in to the knuckle, then deeper. "Oh, God, Stan, yes. Just like that. You're doing so - so good, ngh."

They stayed there at the base of the tree for quite some time, until Kyle began to get nervous about how early darkness was beginning to fall. There just wasn't enough time to teach Stan properly about the prostate gland, though he had grazed it several times in his careful maneuvering. He was sweating and hard again as he worked the second finger in, and Kyle was trying not to be distracted by the oncoming night and the thought of the long walk back to the meadow. They'd ventured rather far into the woods in their excitement.

"I'm going to come now," Kyle said, rocking back onto Stan's fingers, his spine turning fluid and warm. "You, would - you like to come, too? Hmm? Ah, God, look how hard you are, you sweet thing, just from this."

"Kyle," Stan said, sounding again like he would cry, so Kyle stopped taunting him and grabbed both their cocks, pressing them together in his palm. Stan added a hand to help, and they kissed clumsily while Kyle rode Stan's fingers, both of them pumping their fists, never quite finding a rhythm. It didn't matter; they finished in seconds, panting into each other's mouths, both coated in sweat under their shirts.

"You are the missing half of me," Kyle said, unable to stop himself, broken open by an orgasm that felt like it had been forthcoming for hours. Stan whined and nodded, pulling Kyle's bottom lip between his teeth.

"You, when you," he said, his fingers still inside Kyle. "When you finished, you-" He swallowed the rest down, as if he didn't trust himself not to dirty up the moment by trying to describe the euphoric spasms of Kyle's ass.

"Someday you'll feel that on your dick," Kyle said. "If you'd like."

"If I'd like?" Stan said, and they both started laughing. Stan removed his fingers slowly, wiping the Vaseline on Kyle's drawers. "I would like that," Stan said, and he sighed, his head falling back against the tree, eyelids heavy. "I certainly would."

"I'd just prefer we tried it indoors," Kyle said. "And oh, God, I want to stay here with you and recover properly, but Stan, we'd better get moving."

"I'll never recover," Stan said, and he tucked Kyle's cock back into his drawers carefully, giving it a little pat. "I'm changed. Feel like I been to some other world just now."

"I think it's more like we changed this world," Kyle said. "Or you did, for me. It's like I can breathe now. Or like some net has been lifted. Shit, what am I saying? Let's get up, let's go."

They held hands until they reached the meadow, and Kyle's heart continued pumping hard as owls began to hoot and the sun disappeared. He was relieved when he saw the lights of the town, but still wanted to grab for Stan's hand as they made their way through the meadow, Sparky tromping ahead of them.

"You could come and eat rabbit with me and my dad," Stan said as they approached the main road.

"No, I should make an appearance at home," Kyle said, because he was afraid of Randy Marsh and a little horrified to think that a dead rabbit, soon to be eaten, had been present for their somewhat transcendent experience at the base of that tree. "But thank you. I'll see you tonight?"

"I'll be by to get you," Stan said and he winked.

Kyle supposed it was absurd, really just a few lovingly inserted fingers up his ass, but he did feel changed as he went upstairs, as if he was a delicate instrument that someone had made adjustments to. All night - at dinner, at the Dark Horse, on the walk home through the mist - he felt as if he was hitting the right notes, his whole body singing with new clarity. Stan put a slip of paper into his hand when they said goodbye on the landing.

"For later," he said when Kyle started to unfold it. "Read it before bed. It'll keep you safe."

"Alright," Kyle said, and he had to work harder than normal to stop himself from throwing his arms around Stan's shoulders and begging him to stay safe on the walk to the ranch.

"Just keep it close," Stan said. "That paper. Nothing hurts you as long as you have that."

"My," Kyle said. "Now I'm really curious."

"Sleep well," Stan said, and he did his little bow thing, which Kyle had taken for a joke that first time. Kyle looked up and down the road to make sure no one had seen it, as was his habit, but it wasn't really a concern. Every night the fog that rolled down from the mountain seemed to get thicker, and colder. When Kyle looked back to Stan he had already disappeared into the swirling mist, and Kyle could only hear his footsteps on the gravel, Sparky trotting alongside him.

He hurried up to his room, and made himself wait until he was ready to turn in to read the note. Sitting cross-legged on top of his sheets, wearing his pajamas, he unfolded it just before he blew his lamp out. It was just four words, written in ink, the penmanship very careful.

_Darling, I love you._

Kyle's eyes filled up, and his chest ached with something like embarrassment. It was so like Stan to throw _Darling_ in there, something haughty that he would never actually say, to try to convey his seriousness on this matter. Kyle kissed the paper until his eyes leaked, and he hurried to dry his face, not wanting to blot the ink. He slept with the paper under his pillow, his hand pressed over it, and felt nervous about the fact that he hadn't yet given Stan something like this, a spell to keep him safe.

Sleep came easily, and at first his dreams were sweet, lazy wanderings through an enchanted wood, Stan by his side. These were soon clouded by something else, an awareness that he was not alone with his subconscious. Something was watching him even here, and when he saw himself sleeping in bed, floating over the scene as if he had projected himself there, he knew what he would find when he looked to the corner. His dream self froze in terror when he turned his gaze to see that the man-thing was no longer in the corner, but in the middle of the room, just a few feet from his bed. The thing was on its knees, breathing heavily, its eyes still wide and angry. It had long, tightly packed teeth that were clenched together as if it was in pain, and its arms were missing, its shirt sleeves sewed up. Kyle stared, horrified, trying to memorize as many details as possible. He screamed when the thing jerked its head to stare at him where he was suspended in the air, its wild eyes boring into his spirit self.

He woke up shouting, or trying to, his voice a pinched up croak. He scrambled away from the edge of the bed, and only when he had reached the wall did he remember the paper under his pillow, hurrying to snatch it. There was nothing in the room, but Kyle was afraid to move, staring at the place where the thing had been in his dream. He felt as if he could still hear its heavy breaths pushing out from between those clenched teeth.

"Go away," he said, his voice shaking. "Get out of here. I've got nothing for you."

There was no response, and no change in the weight of the air. When he couldn't take it any longer, Kyle tucked Stan's note into the pocket of his pajama shirt and vaulted over the end of the bed, toward the door. As soon as he was out in the hallway he felt better, but not much so. He thought of what Stan had said about coming to him if he was frightened, but there was a mile and a half of dense fog between town and the ranch, and Kyle would never make it without getting lost.

He slipped into Ike's room quietly, hoping to just curl up and sleep at the foot of his bed, but of course Ike was awake, reading by candlelight. He frowned at Kyle from over the rim of his glasses.

"What are you doing?" Ike asked.

"I need to sleep here." Kyle felt idiotic as soon as he'd spoken. His brother would never stop laughing if he knew that Kyle was afraid of a bad dream, an imaginary predator. It didn't feel imaginary when he was alone, and even now he felt more as if he was safe from it in the company of his brother, and not as if it had evaporated.

"Why?" Ike asked. "Did you wet the bed?"

"No. I'm just feeling upset. It's an emotion that we humans sometimes experience, you see. I'd rather not be alone."

Ike started at him for a long time, expressionless. Kyle was preparing to grunt angrily and leave, perhaps to take his chances on the road to the ranch, when Ike spoke.

"You're in deep with that boy who you're always with," Ike said. "Aren't you? Stan, your friend?"

"In deep." Kyle scoffed, a different kind of fear spreading in his chest, hot as opposed to icy. "What does that even mean? What are you talking about?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," Ike said, and he shrugged. "It's no skin off my ass. I don't care if we get kicked out this town, it's dreadful. But would you have us living in the woods? Are you that insatiable?"

Kyle hurried out of the room, humiliated. He wasn't about to try to explain to his brother that there was more to what he was doing - and to what he had done - than sex. Ike would never understand; he was an automaton. Despite that, or maybe because of it, he was very good at knowing how to hurt Kyle. He returned to his room feeling shredded, not sure what more a ghost could do to him.

He lit his lamp and turned toward the wall. Once he was safely under the blankets, he pulled out Stan's note. There was just enough light from the lamp to read it, and Kyle read it over and over, until the words blurred and moved on the paper.

He closed his eyes and held the paper between two fingers, folded once. He wanted to send his spirit off to be with Stan's, though he still didn't like the idea of separating it from his body. Ike could jab at him for it, but for Kyle the body itself was important, and so was having a connection that wasn't just spiritual. Kyle needed it – to be held, kissed, stroked, and perhaps this made him weak, but Stan had truly been inside him, today and on all the days when Kyle had swallowed his seed down gladly. He had touched something in Kyle that Rodney had never managed to reach, for all his thrusting efforts. Kyle had never been so certain that he had a soul, but he knew now, because Stan's had brushed up against his. They were still connected, even apart, though Kyle wanted badly to have Stan's arms around him, and to hear his voice. He unfolded the note and read it again, heard Stan speaking those words distantly, and slept.

Though he had no more nightmares, he woke feeling unsettled. Stan's note was still in his hand, a little crumpled, and Kyle kissed it in apology. He would meet Stan as early as possible, which had become his regular habit, and find him bathing in the stream. Stan would beckon Kyle over and press his nakedness to Kyle's clothes, sometimes putting his hat on Kyle's head. Kyle loved it when Stan did that, for reasons that he supposed were childish. He wanted to dress in Stan's clothes, always.

He tried to pay no heed to the goosebumps that prickled over him as he crossed the room to wash his face, wanting to forget the bad dream and armless man's progress toward his bed. He was still anxious in daylight, and he shouted out when something pierced his bare foot before he could reach his dressing table.

He lifted his foot and found the offending object embedded in his skin, not deeply, but enough to make him cry out in horror when he realized what it was. He flicked it away and stumbled backward, his foot stinging from the cut. Even as it skidded toward the wall, he was sure that his first impression had been correct. He'd felt it as much as he'd seen it, as real as his skin.

It was a long, yellow tooth.


	4. Chapter 4

Kyle couldn't even bear to touch the tooth with a dust pan to get rid of it, and had a hard time keeping his balance as he sat on the end of the bathtub, scrubbing his foot until it was raw and burning from the soap. He wanted every trace of that thing off of him. Then he would find Stan, and Stan would make all of this go away somehow. Kyle made sure to transfer Stan's note from his pajama pocket to his coat pocket after getting dressed. The tooth was still lying on the floor near the wall, not far from the closet. It was a warning, he was sure. A threat, or a promise. He ran down the stairs and left the house without breakfast, though Stan wouldn't be through with work for hours. He just needed to be out of the house, away from that room, among the friendlier spirits in the wilderness. He saw Bebe sweeping the front porch of the Dark Horse on his way down the street, and went to her when she waved.

"Are you alright?" Bebe asked as Kyle approached her, his breath still ragged from the shock of finding the tooth. "You look like you've just had bad news."

"I have, maybe," Kyle said, and he sat on the edge of the porch to steady himself. "I don't think I can explain, though."

"Is Stan alright?" Bebe asked, and Kyle cut her an angry look. She grinned. "Oh, don't scowl at me," she said. "He is alright, though?"

"Yes, as far as I know," Kyle said. He'd expected to flush and stammer if anyone guessed about them, or to be hanged in the town square, but Bebe had never struck him as the judgmental type. "He's at work, up in the mountain. And this isn't to do with him. It's that house."

"That house?" She propped her broom against the side of the building and sat down beside him. Kyle had never before seen her in the light of day, except from a distance if he was peering out his window in the direction of the Dark Horse. She was dressed very differently than she was when she worked, in a green blouse with thin pink stripes and a long, plain skirt. "Are you talking about the Golden Nugget?" she asked.

"Did awful things happen there?" Kyle asked, and he felt badly when her eyes changed, hardening a bit. "I mean, of course they did, but I'm talking about deaths. There's such an evil feeling in my room, and I can't stand it when my brother leaves the doors of the other bedrooms open, as if there's something even worse in there."

"I don't know about deaths," Bebe said. "One of the girls had lost a baby just before I went to stay there. That was how I was kept on at first, taking care of her. But I've only been here since the rush. If you want to know the history of the place you should ask Eric Cartman. He was born there, after all."

"Ha," Kyle said. "Was he. Well, it's no wonder the place is cursed, being the site of the birth of the Antichrist."

"Please," Bebe said. "He only wishes he was the Antichrist. He's all talk, but I bet he knows a thing or two about the Nugget. His mama worked there since she was my age, maybe longer."

"I suppose I'll ask him," Kyle said. "Though he'll just turn it into an excuse to taunt me somehow. Stan wants to have a seance, meanwhile."

"Oh, we should!" Bebe said, and she grabbed for his hands. "I'd be delighted to participate. You can't have a proper seance without a woman, and Wendy will just laugh at you, she doesn't believe in anything she can't touch."

"I'm sure you'd be welcome," Kyle said, and he groaned. "But I can't actually do it. How humiliating, bringing everyone to my house so they can help me ward off a ghost."

"It wouldn't be just that," Bebe said. "A seance is an enlightening experience for all parties. It's about getting in touch with the spiritual essences."

"You sound like Stan," Kyle said.

"Stan is an old soul. Like Kenny, a little. But Stan has kept himself innocent somehow. He's so open, it's sort of beautiful."

She was watching Kyle as if she expected him to have commentary on this. He sighed and stood, not wanting to discuss Stan's openness, or beauty.

"I'm grateful to have met him," Kyle said, a bit tightly. She might have guessed about him, but Kyle wasn't about to make her a confidant. "I'll see you tonight," he said. "I'm going for a walk, need to clear my head."

He walked toward the meadow, hoping to at least find Sparky, but he was off somewhere doing dog business, and Kyle was still alone by the time he made it to the creek where Stan cleaned up after work. He sat down in a patch of sunlight, leaning against a tree. It was a warm but windy day, and the trees were tossing about up above, the glow of the sun through their leaves making Kyle think of a jungle canopy. He was too wound up to sleep, so he occupied himself with uneasy theories about what the thing with no arms might want from him. It was possible that this was all in his head, but that tooth had been real; his foot was sore after the walk from town, stinging in the place where the tooth had pierced him. The man in the dream felt just as real, corporal somehow, and unchanged by Kyle's subconscious.

The day seemed to last an eternity, and by the time he heard footsteps he was very on edge, afraid that a bear would emerge from the forest, though the footsteps sounded distinctly human. He scrambled to his feet, dizzy with the need to eat and praying that the approaching person was Stan. At first he was afraid that it wasn't, because he barely recognized Stan like this: covered in sooty dust and sweating profusely under his work clothes, looking like something that had just been birthed by a volcano. Kyle usually came upon him when he was mostly finished with washing all of this away, and it was startling to see proof of how hard he worked. He looked very tired, almost dazed, and didn't notice Kyle until he'd nearly reached the opposite bank of the creek.

"Hey!" Stan said, his eyes widening. They shone brightly from his dirt-caked face, and the effect was almost eerie. "What's the matter?" he asked, and he crossed the creek in three steps, rushing to Kyle. "You alright?"

"Oh, God, I don't know!" Ignoring the filth, Kyle threw himself onto Stan and hugged him around the chest, hating that his smell was mostly buried by the stink of the mountain. Stan dropped his bag and held on to Kyle, pulling off one of his gloves so he could stroke Kyle's hair.

"You'll wreck your clothes," Stan said, but he let Kyle burrow against him. "What's wrong?"

"I found a tooth!" Kyle said.

"A tooth?"

"Yes, in my room. Oh, Stan." Kyle looked up at him, wanting to kiss him but unwilling to touch his mouth to the black dirt on Stan's cheeks. "Your note."

"I'd hoped it would help," Stan said, and he wiped some residual dirt from Kyle's chin.

"It did, it helped a great deal, but there's still something very wrong there. I'm meant to be with you at night, and I feel I'll die from this thing if I can't be."

"Shh, okay." Stan pulled off his other glove and cupped Kyle's cheek, giving him a very careful kiss on the forehead. "Tell me about it while I clean all this off. You can help me scrub."

Kyle told him about the man with no arms, trying to accurately describe the threatening presence in the dreams that lingered, but it was hard to take what he was saying seriously while he helped Stan wash the sweat and dirt from his skin. Stan was listening sympathetically, but was also becoming aroused. Kyle couldn't blame him for that; he was hard in his pants and wanting to fling his own clothes off. He'd rolled up his pants and sleeves, but the cuffs were still getting wet.

"You know what I'm going to say," Stan said while Kyle helped him wash his hair, Stan's hat residing on Kyle's head in the meantime.

"A seance," Kyle said. "Yes, I do know you'll say that, and I can't see how it would help. This thing doesn't want to work with us or be spoken to. I get the feeling it can't talk."

"How come?"

"I don't know! I don't know why any of this is happening. Probably because I'm losing my mind or something."

"You're not," Stan said. "Let me see your foot where that thing cut you."

Kyle sat down on a rock and lifted his foot for Stan. He'd already removed his socks and boots, but he felt self-conscious as Stan examined the cut. There was something very unsettling about having attention directed at his feet, he'd always thought. He'd never liked buying shoes, getting measured, possibly because he'd always had smallish feet for a boy.

"Damn," Stan said, and he carefully set Kyle's foot back into the water. "Well, this'll help, having it in the spring. Healing powers and so forth." He winked. "But that makes me real nervous. That thing hurt you."

"Yes," Kyle said. "And frankly I don't think a seance is quite enough. We've got to think up some way to sneak you into my room every night. That's the only thing that will work, I'm sure."

"Kyle," Stan said. "You're not serious. You know I'd be up there every minute if I could, but life just ain't gonna be like that for us."

"Life," Kyle said, cheered by this, despite the fact that he knew Stan was right. "We'll have a life together, though? You think?"

"God willing," Stan said. He looked down at his cock with a kind of disapproval, as if he didn't want its increasing hardness to steal the scene. "I meant what I wrote," he said.

"I know you did," Kyle said, reaching for him. "I think it kept me safe. It kept me sane, anyway. My brother - he thinks he knows about us. I admitted nothing, of course, but he implied some things."

"That little shit," Stan said, and Kyle grinned. "I'll beat his ass if he tries to make trouble for you."

"I'd love that," Kyle said. "But it would likely only make more trouble. Let's just - oh, God, Stan. If only we could just run away."

"Where to? There's no place where we wouldn't have to be careful. But I swear, right here in this water with the goddamn mountain as my witness, I won't be torn away from you. I just won't."

"Come here," Kyle said, reaching for him again, and this time Stan came, naked and wet. Kyle was still shaken by what had happened the night before, and he reveled in the weight of Stan as he was pressed down into the moss near the creek, Stan's mouth so hot on his neck, his tongue caressing Kyle's skin just softly, soothing him.

"Can I?" Stan asked, sitting back, and he touched the top button on Kyle's shirt. Kyle nodded, needing this, though they usually didn't dare to fool around so close to the edge of the forest. His breath came faster as Stan's hands moved downward, undoing buttons. "Goddamn," Stan muttered when he pushed Kyle's shirt open, as if his pale chest was something worth seeing. Kyle almost hated to show it to him; he somehow managed to be scrawny and flabby at all once. He arched when Stan pressed his thumbs into his nipples, his worries about his physique dissipating.

"Should we move this elsewhere?" Kyle asked, his legs spreading. He was relieved when Stan shook his head. Kyle already needed to come, and then he needed to eat quickly afterward. He hoped Stan had something more than wafers.

"Not till I suck on these," Stan said, still rubbing his nipples. "And this." He moved one hand down to knead Kyle's cock through the crotch of his pants. Kyle liquified under Stan's hands, moaning, showing Stan his shameless self.

"Yes, drink me up," Kyle said, grinning when Stan leaned down to kiss him. "I've got healing powers."

Kyle could hear Stan's stomach growling as if to answer his own while Stan sucked on him, working Kyle's nipples between his teeth and lips until Kyle was crying out for mercy, both of his fat little buds swollen and beginning to feel sore with stimulation. Stan nipped and licked him all the way down toward his cock, pausing to bite at the roll of fat that sat above Kyle's trousers. Kyle whined and twitched, going still when Stan nosed at his crotch.

"Where's Sparky?" Kyle asked, embarrassed by his sudden remembrance of the dog.

"Probably with Craig," Stan said. "He's sick."

"Oh." Kyle sat up on his elbows, feeling lightheaded. "He was looking a bit deathly the other night. Will he be alright?"

"Don't know," Stan said. "But he's by himself during the day, so. I think having Sparky there helps. I don't know what else to do for the poor bastard."

"Does he really have TB?" Kyle asked. He didn't want to have this conversation now, but he was sort of fond of Craig.

"Nobody knows what he has," Stan said. "'Cept Dr. Testaburger, but he's got a policy against gossiping about his patients. Craig just mutters that it's not our business if we ask. Do you still want me to suck your dick?"

"Yes," Kyle said, and he had to stop himself from saying, _It's what Craig would want_ , because perhaps that was cruel.

After Kyle had come in Stan's mouth he no longer cared much for relocating, and he lay by the side of the creek, mostly nude, playing idly with Stan's cock while he tried to regain his energy. He needed sleep, and food, but he was unwilling to stop rubbing his finger though the pre-come on Stan's cockhead.

"You're like a rag doll," Stan said, stretched out beside him, and he leaned down to mouth at Kyle's neck. "All worn out already?"

"I didn't sleep much," Kyle said. "Just jerk off on my face or something."

"Hell no, I'm not doing that."

"Why not?" Kyle had never liked it when Rodney did it, but for some reason he wanted Stan's come all over him, dripping from his eyelashes.

"'Cause I love you," Stan said, and Kyle laughed. Stan thumped him on his ass, which was exposed, Kyle's pants still halfway down. "I'm serious!"

"I know," Kyle said, and he pulled Stan down for a kiss. "But, listen. Coming on my face doesn't mean you don't care."

"Christ, you're odd," Stan said, smiling now, and he kissed Kyle's cheeks. "But I think I'd rather do it on your chest. Or your ass."

"You could do it in my ass," Kyle said, his heart beating a little faster. He could hear Stan swallow, and he met his eyes nervously.

"Now?" Stan said.

"No," Kyle said. "I'm much too hungry to do it now. But sometime. Soon, I think. I want you like that. I know I'd love it."

"Mhm," Stan said. He was stroking himself, and his hand moved a little faster. Kyle put his hand over Stan's and slowed his pace.

"You should try to last a long time," Kyle said. Stan groaned.

"I feel like I have already. I been hard since you touched me."

"Try to last even longer. It makes it better when you let go. Here - have you brought some food? We could eat lunch, then you could come. How's that?"

"You're telling me when I get to finish?" Stan said, and Kyle sort of liked that he seemed to object to this. He rolled onto his back and showed himself to Stan, spreading his legs as much as his pants would allow, reaching down to touch his spent cock.

"You can't wait?" Kyle said. "You need relief?"

"I could wait, but I don't want to." Stan looked confused, as if he wasn't sure he should be mad about this. "Sit up and lick me," he said. "It's only fair."

Kyle leaned up onto his elbows, getting hard again for having been given an order. He liked the idea of tussling for control. He liked, too, the idea of Stan winning. He put his mouth on Stan's cock obediently, but only licked him in teasing little swipes, until Stan groaned and took a handful of Kyle's curls, pulling his head back so his panting mouth circled Stan's cockhead.

"Yeah, good," Stan said when Kyle took him in. Stan's breath was growing shallow as he guided Kyle's pace, and Kyle hummed around him, wanting to be called a good boy, or a bad one. Possibly to prove a point, Stan lasted longer than he normally did, controlling Kyle's movements with his grip on Kyle's hair. When he finally came he sort of whimpered, and Kyle swallowed it greedily, his stomach gurgling.

They flopped together onto the ground, and Stan scooted close to kiss Kyle's face. He still smelled a little dirtier than normal, mixed with the smell of the soap and his post-sex skin.

"Please tell me you have food," Kyle said while Stan played with his hair, smoothing down the curls he'd tugged on when he came.

"I got a tin of salt pork and some crackers," Stan said, and Kyle moaned with approval, nodding. Stan kissed his nose and went for his bag. He took out his clean pants, and tossed the tin of pork to Kyle before putting them on.

"Yum, oh, gosh, this is perfect," Kyle said, and he tore the top off the tin, going at the pork with his fingers.

"I still say you should have a seance," Stan said when he returned with the crackers and his canteen. "Look at you, little savage, eating with your cock still out?" Apparently offended by this, Stan pulled Kyle's drawers and trousers back up for him, tucking him in and buttoning his fly.

"Sorry," Kyle said when he'd stopped chewing to draw breath.

"Don't be," Stan said. He leaned forward to kiss Kyle's mouth, licking up some of the salt and grease left behind by the pork. "Really, though," he said, his face still hovering near Kyle's. "A seance. Let's have one."

"You're obsessed," Kyle said.

"I'm not the one stepping on demon teeth! I'm worried about you, Jesus. Do it for my piece of mind, alright? When are your parents going out next?"

Kyle's parents were invited to the Stotches' dinner party that Friday, and Kyle reluctantly allowed Stan to make plans to gather the whole gang at the former Golden Nugget as opposed to the Dark Horse that evening. Bebe even requested the night off of work for the occasion, and she was one of the first to arrive, shortly after Kyle's parents had left.

"Wendy sends her disapproval," Bebe said. "She recommends that you drink hot milk or rub lavender on your pillow to ward off nightmares."

"How thoughtful of her," Kyle said, and he took Bebe's coat. It was beginning to grow cold at night, and Kyle was starting to wish that his bedroom had a fireplace. The continuing nightmares didn't help the chill; he hadn't found anymore teeth, but every time he had the dream about the man with no arms, he seemed to be just slightly closer to the bed. He was terrified nightly, and if the seance didn't work he wasn't sure what he would do.

"Will your little brother join us?" Bebe asked, looking up toward the second floor.

"Absolutely not," Kyle said. "He's shut himself in his room with his books as usual, and if he tries to bother us I'll sick Cartman on him."

"What a thing to do to your flesh and blood!" Bebe said.

"He's not, exactly," Kyle said, feeling a pang of guilt. "He's adopted."

"Even so. Shall we set up down here, in the main room?"

"Set up?"

There was a knock on the door, and Kyle went to get it while Bebe began arranging chairs. Stan was on the front porch, hat-less, his hair combed neatly, as if he was out for a special date. Kyle supposed this was one, sort of, and he brushed a bit of Sparky's fur from Stan's shirt.

"Bebe's here," Kyle said, keeping his voice low.

"Damn," Stan said. "I'd thought, maybe-"

"Yes, well. I'd thought that, too, but she was early, and anyway, they didn't take Ike with them. Come in - what's this?" he asked when he noticed that Stan was carrying a package.

"Something I made for the party," Stan said. "Sausage balls."

"Sausage balls."

"Yeah, I got the meat from the butcher. Don't think I could stomach making my own sausage. This is pork, anyway, um. Which you like."

"I do," Kyle said, and he beamed, accepting the package. It was warm on the bottom and smelled delightful. Kyle hadn't realized how hungry he was, and somehow hadn't anticipated that his guests might want food.

He was surprised when almost all of them brought something: Butters came bearing a cheese and onion pie that he'd swiped from his parents' shindig, Cartman had a jug of fermented cider, and Clyde brought a spice cake made by his mother. Only Kenny had nothing, but Kyle was glad for his presence. It was foolish, but he'd come to see Kenny's oddness as truly indicative of some otherworldly and protective force.

"Craig wasn't well enough to come?" Kyle asked Clyde, who was eying Bebe as she lit some candles on the bar.

"He wanted to," Clyde said, looking to Kyle. "He had his strength up earlier today, when I went over there to see him. But we stopped by on the way here and his mother said he's sleeping."

"It's so hard to see a friend suffering with an illness," Kyle said when Clyde stared into space for a moment, looking like he might cry.

"He'll be alright," Clyde said, and he hurried away to get a cup of Cartman's cider.

"I've got to get good and drunk to stomach this nonsense," Cartman said as he poured a large helping for himself. "You surprise me, Union. I didn't think you went in for Stan's fairy tales. Though, when I put it that way, maybe it really isn't much of a surprise, you two bonding over fairies."

"Dispense with that negative attitude or you'll bring danger to us all," Bebe said, and this shut everyone up. Even Cartman was sort of boggling at her seriousness as she took a seat in one of the chairs that she'd arranged into a circle. She was dressed less fancifully than she did when she waited tables at the Dark Horse, in a dark purple dress with a high neckline. She had her hair down, and it cascaded over her shoulders in natural waves, making her look a bit wild. She smiled demurely when she saw them all staring at her, studying her manner. "Clyde," she said. "Be a dear and get me a slice of that cake."

There was a lot of talking and joking before they officially began, and Ike came out twice to hiss _shhhh!_ and remind Kyle that he did not have permission to host a party. This was, of course, met with derisive laughter. Kyle ate five of Stan's sausage balls, astounded by how delicious they were, a baked mix of biscuit batter, cheddar, meat and chopped onions. Between those and the cider he was feeling full and almost sleepy as he settled into the circle beside Stan, with Kenny at his other side.

"Now," Bebe said when everyone was seated. "Clear your minds. Even those of you who are non-believers, try to open yourself to the possibilities of the spirit world. Think on those you've known who have died, and your lingering connections to those souls."

Butters raised his hand.

"What if we don't know anyone who's died?" he asked when Bebe stared at him.

"You knew Christophe," Clyde said.

"And Craig's as good as dead, think on him," Cartman said. Clyde leapt out of his chair, evading Bebe's attempts to grab at him.

"You shut your mouth!" Clyde said, pointing at Cartman. "You ain't no doctor and you don't know what you're talking about!"

"It was a joke, Jesus!" Cartman said. "I was trying to lighten the mood."

"Clyde, sit," Bebe said, and he obeyed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Don't welcome aggression into the circle. It could bring harmful spirits our way. Kyle," she said, and he startled a little when she looked to him. "You're trying to address a specific spirit who may be harmful, correct?"

"Um." Kyle felt like he'd been called on in class, asked to read some particularly flowery poetry. He wanted to move closer to Stan, who was watching him with a kind of gentle pity. "Well, yes. It's a man with his arms missing. Only he doesn't quite seem like a man."

"It's Ugly Jim!" Cartman said, slapping his thigh. "I know him!"

"What?" Kyle sat up a little straighter, wishing he hadn't drank so much cider. He still hadn't asked Cartman about the deaths at the Nugget specifically; it was humiliating enough to involve him in this gathering. "You knew a man with missing arms?"

"Not personally," Cartman said. "Asshole died before I was born. But yeah, he was so ugly that the ladies who worked here back before my mother retired and took over? They wouldn't have him. And this guy had money, alright, so he was offering double, triple their usual price! Still they turned him out, said they got a bad feeling. This one who he'd grabbed when he was angry about them rejecting him told him that if he touched her again she'd chop off his hand."

"I don't think this really happened," Clyde said. "It's just a story."

"It did happen, Clyde, my mom was there! Okay? So." Cartman smiled a little, seeming to enjoy the attention of the room. Kyle had to wonder if he was making all this up. "This guy, he grabs a lady one night in the street, tries to have his way with her. She bites him, gets away, and tells the girls at the Nugget what happened, 'cause she's too ashamed to go to anyone else, see. And the girl he'd grabbed before says, hey. He grabbed you with both arms? Both arms are coming off. They cut out his tongue, too, so he couldn't tell anyone. Shit, you'd better watch your ass," Cartman said, turning to Kyle. "Girls here used to say they felt stared at sometimes, even when there was no one else in the room, and Ugly Jim's always comin' after pretty little things like you, Union."

"How come I never heard this?" Stan asked.

"Because, Stanley, it was back before your little girl there brought Union justice to town, but even then you didn't go running your mouth about who you killed on your own terms. I mean, the fucker died in a ditch a day or so later later. Blood loss or whatever."

"Eric!" Butters said, squirming in his seat. "What a horrible story!"

"Where'd they bury him?" Kenny asked. He'd been quiet until then, where Kyle had expected him to have plenty of input about spirits.

"Dunno," Cartman said. "Maybe they just tossed him out in the woods, let the vultures have him."

"Let's not speak this way," Bebe said. "This is an angry spirit, and our cruel words won't help him understand the errors he made in life, or the anger he's still holding on to."

"Why wouldn't he just go to hell?" Clyde asked. "If he was evil and so on?"

"Perhaps it's not so black and white," Bebe said. "Or maybe he's in a kind of purgatory because he wasn't properly buried. Regardless, we need to communicate that he's not welcome here, and that he must leave this place in peace. Let's join hands."

"Oh, God," Cartman said, but he took Butters' hand, and Kenny's.

The actual seance was mostly Bebe talking to the spirit, telling him that while his rejection must have been painful, he had no right to take what he wanted at the expense of hurting others. Kyle's palms began to sweat as Bebe talked about how all living things were beautiful in the eyes of their creator, and that Ugly Jim - she referred to him as 'James' - should return to the loving embrace of his creator rather than lingering in this moral coil where he had suffered so much pain. Kyle started to get distracted as she continued on, and he peeked up at the landing to make sure that no ghosts were watching. The only person standing up there was Ike, and he was frowning down at them with disgust.

"Mother and Dad will hear about this!" he shouted, and Butters screamed. Hands were released; Cartman belched. The seance was then over, more or less.

"Well, I hardly feel better," Kyle said when he was standing on the porch with Stan, having shooed everyone but Clyde and Bebe away. They were inside, conversing so gravely that Kyle thought they must be talking about Craig.

"Sorry," Stan said. "I guess I shoulda known this was a shitty idea."

"It was worth a try," Kyle said. "Honestly, I did feel better at one point, having all of you there, making the place a bit noisy for once, eating. But Cartman's story - you hadn't told him I'd seen a man with no arms, had you?"

"No," Stan said. "I don't talk to that jackass in confidence. He probably just made all that stuff up on the spot, and even if he didn't, we told that James person to get lost, right? Bebe seemed to know what she was talking about."

"I suppose," Kyle said, disagreeably. He checked over his shoulder to make sure Clyde and Bebe weren't looking. "Quick," he said, whispering. "Kiss my hand for luck."

Stan did, and then held on to it for a few moments. It felt dangerously intimate just to hold his gaze, but Kyle was unwilling to blink, his eyes beginning to burn. Stan released his hand when Clyde came to the door to leave.

"Kinda disappointed we didn't see any ghosts," Clyde said, and he seemed serious.

"Sorry to disappoint you," Kyle said. "I feel as though I've been a bad host, in that sense. No one even became possessed."

"But it wasn't a bad party," Clyde said, and he turned to look at Bebe. She was leaning in the doorway, looking tired. Kyle wondered if she'd have to clean up at the Dark Horse when she got back. "Walk you home, miss?" Clyde said, putting his arm out.

"I think, yes," Bebe said, and she took his arm. "After Cartman's story, I feel I need an escort. Kyle, just so you know, I heard all kinds of gossip when I lived here, old and new, and never that particular tale."

"He was probably just trying to scare me," Kyle said, though something in him knew this wasn't the case. Cartman had spoken as plainly as he did when he ranted about the Union. He had at least seemed to believe what he was saying himself.

"Still, be cautious," Bebe said, lowering her voice. "I felt the air in there lighten a bit, but it's a place where the walls have maybe seen too much anguish. Or too much darkness. It's like a stuffy room that needs airing, and I fear a seance can only do so much. If your brother goes tattling to your parents, I think you should use it an excuse to ask them to move elsewhere. Surely there's another building in town that's free."

"Maybe," Kyle said. "Thanks for coming." He waved to her and Clyde, and watched with Stan as they disappeared into the fog, heading toward the Dark Horse. "I feel like I'm living in a town of ghosts, sometimes," Kyle said. "Everyone always being consumed by this mist when they leave me."

"What I would give not to leave you," Stan said, leaning toward him. He didn't dare get very close; the party at Butters' house was breaking up, couples bidding farewell to the Stotches as they headed toward home. They could only hear this from the end of the road, the visibility too poor to see who was coming, but Kyle was sure his parents would emerge from the fog any moment.

"Well," Kyle said when he heard his mother's laugh. "Goodnight. Thank you, just - thank you. Just sitting next to you while the others are there feels like a privilege. Like we're together somehow, even when we're not-" He swallowed the word 'touching' down, his parents appearing near the other end of the porch. His mother seemed a bit drunk, his father tired.

"Evening, boys," Sheila said. "Just back from the bar?"

"I had a few friends over for the evening," Kyle said. "I hope it's alright. Mrs. Donovan sent a spice cake with Clyde, there's some left if you'd like any."

"I couldn't eat another thing!" Sheila said, and she made her way into the house.

"You should inform us if you're going to host friends," Gerald said, but he didn't seem angry. "Come in now, Kyle, and Stan, you get home. It's quite late."

"Yes, sir," they said, in unison, and Kyle grinned. Stan did his odd little bow, just with his head this time, and walked down the front steps. Gerald was holding the door for Kyle, and as he reentered the house he felt his guard go up. For the moment, there would be the sounds of his parents readying themselves for bed, Ike's bickering insistence that Kyle be punished for having friends at the house, and usual nighttime noises for the street. Then all would go still, and Kyle would be alone in the dark. He reached into his jacket pocket to touch Stan's note as he climbed the stairs. It had saved him so far.

"It's as if he's been rewarded and I've been punished!" Ike was shouting this at Sheila as Kyle slipped into his room, and though it made Kyle's heart beat fast with nervous guilt, he did not have the energy to confront his brother. He hurried to light his lamp before closing the door, shutting out the sound of Ike's tantrum.

Kyle brought the lamp over to his bedside and picked up his copy of _Ivanhoe_ , which he was reading for the second time. It wasn't one of his favorite books, but he did like medieval dramas generally, and had run out of new things to read. His mother had promised that he could send away for some books by mail if he could figure out how to do so. In New York there were bookstores in every neighborhood.

He wasn't able to concentrate much on the book, and kept glancing at the middle of the room to confirm that no armless creatures had appeared there. Nothing came, but his sense of being dangerously alone increased as the house and the street outside grew quieter. He could still hear footsteps from either Ike's room or his parents, and he blew out his lamp, wanting to try to sleep before complete silence settled over the house.

Sleep always came easily at first, because since the nightmares had begun he was perpetually tired. Tonight was no exception, and at first he dreamed of Stan, but the dream was not a good one. Stan had become sick; many people in town had, Craig's illness having become an epidemic. Kenny was the only one who was well, and he led Kyle through a kind of field hospital, everyone in town laid out on beds, coughing and moaning, withering away. When Kyle found Stan he had to hold back, only touching his hand, still afraid that his feelings for Stan would be discovered.

"We're all dead, aren't we?" Stan said, and Kyle shook his head.

"You can't be, though," he said. "You're still warm." As he said so he realized this wasn't true. Stan's hand had gone cold, his eyes wide and unseeing.

"Wake up now," Kenny said when Kyle wept, and he did.

Kyle was lying on his side when he woke, facing the wall. His heart started pounding as he tried to decide if he could feel something behind him, watching him, or if it was only in his head. He reached into the pocket on his pajama shirt for Stan's note, and realized with a panicked whine that he'd left it in the pocket of his jacket in his hurry to dress for bed. He was without his protective charm, Stan's promise to keep him safe, and now he felt certain that an angry spirit's unblinking eyes were upon him. He pulled the blankets up over his head.

"Go away," he said. "You're not wanted here." His stomach dropped when he realized that, if this thing was the ghost of that Ugly Jim person, that was exactly what the women who worked at the Golden Nugget had once told him. He would enraged by this if anything.

He heard something then, close to the bed. A kind of hissed intake of breath, then a slow, calculated exhale.

"Please!" Kyle whispered, curling into a ball under the blankets. "Go away!"

He waited, listening, and didn't hear the breathing again. He was sweating under the blanket, shaking, and his heart was thundering. Though whatever was out there had gone silent again, he was sure it was still present. He could feel it wanting to grab him, to pounce. _It can't touch me_ , Kyle thought. _Not without arms_. The women who cut them off must have taken them and buried them somewhere with his tongue, away from his body. Now he wanted them back.

"I don't have them," Kyle said, feeling insane. "I don't know where they are!"

Again he waited, and again he heard nothing. He decided to go for Stan's note, even if he couldn't read it. Though perhaps he would also light his lamp again. All he had to do was throw the blanket off and cross the room, watchful for teeth, as he always was now. The thing that haunted this room couldn't hurt him. It was not real, not corporal. Its only power was to terrify him into staying under the blanket. He slipped his hand out to pull it down just a bit, bracing himself.

He threw the blanket off fast, and rolled over to leave the bed in a similar fashion, but the man with no arms was there, looming over him, his eyes open so wide that his whole head seemed be trembling with the effort. His mouth was open, too, toothless now, tongue-less, and he was making a horrible croaking sound as he lowered himself down over Kyle, his mouth seeming to open even wider, as if he would swallow Kyle wholly. It occurred to Kyle as he screamed, flattening himself to the mattress, that the man was after his tongue, that he would suck it straight out of Kyle's mouth so that he could never tell anyone why he'd gone mad.

He woke up still wrapped in the blanket, having flung himself over the side of the bed in terror. The blanket came off and he scrambled up onto his feet, still thrashing his arms to fight away the nightmare. There was nothing to fight; it had been a dream, but it had been something else, too. Kyle felt it still on his skin, as if he was covered in a drying film of someone else's saliva. For a moment he was sure he would vomit, but it passed as he decided on a course of action, flinging himself in the direction of his jacket, which was stretched across his dressing table. He grabbed the jacket, not sure if he still felt the thing in the room with him or not. He didn't care that its attempt to attack him had taken place in a dream. He would not stay here; he couldn't. He grabbed his boots and dashed out into the hall, walking on tip-toes to conceal his departure.

Out on the front porch, it took some time to lace up his boots over his pajama pants. His hands were still shaking terribly. The fog was thick, almost like a misting rain, but he knew the way to Stan's house now, and there was nowhere else for him when he was feeling like this. Assaulted in his own bed - he felt changed, worsened, as if he had truly lost his tongue. The dream about Stan dying on a hospital cot was still heavy in his mind, too, as if it was a memory Kenny had shown him and not only a subconscious anxiety. He set off down the road with a kind of determined lunacy, raising his shoulders against the chill.

At first the brisk walking strengthened him, and he felt he had successfully fled the danger, but as the lights from the town vanished behind him and he headed further down the road to Stan's ranch, he began to wonder why he'd felt so certain that this trek was a brilliant idea. The fog was so heavy that he felt he could hear it, and its damp weight began to seem like a whisper as he passed through it. He was guided by the sound of the creek that ran along the road, but as he walked he began to find its bubbling noise unsettling, too much like the chatter of an unseen crowd. He looked behind him and saw only the gray fog that he'd already passed through. It seemed to be following him, wall-like, always moving in infinitesimal swirls. He shuddered, pulled his jacket around himself and walked faster.

He tried to think rationally, to keep himself occupied during the trek. Clearly there was a foul, left behind presence in his house, and possibly it was due to a pervert who'd been murdered by a group of angry women, but, aside from the tooth, which his mother later claimed was just a piece of hard plaster that had fallen from the ceiling, he had seen no evidence that any of his bad feelings or nightmares could result in physical damage. Therefore, he should not be tripping as he walked, too terrified to put one foot in front of the other, and should not indulge his increasing feeling that the whisper of the mist was growing louder and more distinct, nearly forming words.

"Who's there?" he shouted, whirling around when one whisper seemed to pass close to his ear. He stumbled backward, nearly falling into the creek. He thought he heard laughter, receding footsteps - but no, that was the water. He turned back around and began to walk even faster, a nervous sweat pooling inside his clothes. He had the distinct feeling that someone was following him, keeping back just far enough to stay out of sight. The whispering continued, and he broke into a jog when he realized that it was a conversation - there were at least two figures behind him in the mist, and he heard them laugh cruelly when he took off running.

Though he heard no footsteps on the gravel road, he knew they were pursuing him, keeping close. He heard himself sob and told himself to stop it, to be a man, and that he had to be getting close to Stan's yard by now. He heard laughter again, as if in response to this internal comfort, and other voices, some hissing as if in whispered disagreement with the first two. A new fear set into him when he crashed into a fence post at the edge of Stan's property. Something was very off, and had been since he arrived here. He thought of Stan in his dream, saying _We're all dead, aren't we?_ What if they were, the whole town, and the ruined Broflovskis had been sent here as a cruel joke, only to be received by ghosts?

It had always been too hard to really believe: the way Stan had appeared to him in that meadow, his inexplicable and undisguised love for Kyle, and how easily he banished the bad spirits when they were together. Never once had they been come upon while they had each other in the woods, not even by a squirrel. They had touched, but perhaps Kyle had become delusional, only believing they had. Perhaps he was actually in an insane asylum this very instant, condemned to reside there after what Rodney had done, thrashing about his in bed while some nurses strapped him down into his nightmare.

By the time he saw Stan's house he'd frightened himself into expecting a half-crumbled structure, abandoned back when an epidemic wiped out the settlement, but the cottage was just as Kyle remembered it: cozy, lit from within, smoke coming from one chimney. The whispers were still circling around him, and although he was too mad with panic to make out the words exactly, he had the feeling he was being commentated upon with varying levels of approval, as if his life was a performance the dead were attending. Something snatched at the back of his jacket just before he reached the side of the cottage where Stan's room was, and he cried out in horror, jerking forward. They wanted his talisman, his note from Stan; he was sure of this. Without it he would have been already devoured, found in spring along with that Christophe person, his skin stripped from his bones.

"Stan!" he shouted, beating both fists against his closed window, too terrified to remember to be discreet. "Please! Let me in, please!" He felt as if they were circling his ankles already with invisible rope, preparing to yank him backward into the mist.

Stan threw his curtains open, frowning. He was shirtless, holding his rifle, and when he saw that it was Kyle beating on his window he set the gun down, throwing the window open with his other hand. Kyle scrambled inside, kicking his feet out behind him as if to beat back the hands he'd felt closing in on him.

"What's the matter?" Stan asked, receiving Kyle into his arms, helping him inside. "What's happened?"

"Shut it!" Kyle said, and he turned to do so himself, slamming the window down. He closed the curtains, too, and jumped when he backed into Stan. "They-" he said, and then he cried out in helpless shock, knowing he wouldn't be able to explain. He brought his fists up to his face and moaned, sinking into Stan's arms when they wound around him.

"Who's hurt you?" Stan asked. "Are they outside? I'll kill them. Even under your dad's law, I can kill them if they're on my property, and especially if they've hurt you-"

"They're already dead, I think," Kyle said, weakly. He pulled his shaking fists from his face and grabbed hold of Stan, moaning at the smell of his skin. He was so warm, fresh from the bed, and his heart was pounding under Kyle's cheek. Of course he was alive, real; that dream meant nothing.

"Shit," Stan said. Sparky was pawing at the bedroom door, whining. "C'mon." He brought Kyle over to the bed, smoothed his hair down and looked into his eyes for a moment before going to the door to let the dog in. Sparky bound into the room with an attitude of urgent concern, and he came straight to Kyle, standing up on his back legs to sniff at him madly, his front paws digging into Kyle's thighs. "Get down," Stan said, pulling him back by the collar. "Let him alone, go on. Lay by the fire." Stan pointed and Sparky went, looking back toward Kyle with a cautious stare.

"Sorry," Stan said, and he shut his bedroom door again. "It's a good thing my old man took his usual medicine before bed. Nothing wakes him up once he's hit the sack. What are you doing here?" He sat down on the bed, tucked his arm around Kyle and pulled him close. "Hmm?" he said, wiping tears from the corner of Kyle's eye with his thumb. "What's happened? You sure I don't need to go out there with my gun?"

"These dreams will destroy me," Kyle said, shaking his head. "This one, tonight. Stan, it was like he was there. I feel that he was, truly, like I woke just in time. And I dreamed that you were sick! Oh, God, just hold me, I can't even speak of it yet."

"This is my fault," Stan said, rocking Kyle in his arms. "That goddamn seance. I shoulda known it would just stir things up."

"Things were already stirred," Kyle said. "And on the way here - I heard things, whispers. Something snatched at my jacket."

"Shit," Stan said. "Here, let me take it off. Your boots, too. Okay? And you can get in bed with me."

"God, yes, please," Kyle said, his eyes sliding shut as Stan sank down to unlace his boots for him. Kyle took off his jacket and examined the back of it, not sure what he was expecting to find. There was no evidence that it had been grabbed. Though Kyle now had the protection of the most powerful charm of all, Stan himself, he transferred Stan's note to his pajama pocket before hanging the jacket on the end of his bed.

"There we go," Stan said, pulling off one boot, then the other. "Go sit up by the pillows," he said, and he stood, bending to kiss Kyle's cheek. "I'll put another log on. Getting cold in here."

"Don't you think I'm crazy?" Kyle asked as he did as he was told, pushing his legs under Stan's blankets. "Coming here like this? It's so risky. I just couldn't stand it there a minute longer. I couldn't stand to be anywhere, away from you."

"I gotta admit, I'm glad you're here," Stan said, and he turned from the fire to smile. The fireplace in his room was small but effective, and Kyle felt warm already, possibly from embarrassment more than anything. "I hate that the seance didn't help, though. We gotta do something to help you. I'm gonna send off for a book about the occult after I get paid."

"You'll have to show me how to do that," Kyle said, muttering. Now that he was warm in Stan's bed, his panic over a bad dream and some odd noises seemed ridiculous. Maybe he had only imagined that snatch at the back of his jacket.

"How to do what?" Stan asked, walking to the bed.

"Order books," Kyle said. "I'm hopeless, you know, I just can't do anything without you." He held his arms out and Stan dropped down into them, pulling Kyle to him.

"Not true," Stan said. "But I don't mind doing things for you. Anything you need." They held each other like that for some time, Kyle heaving dramatic sighs while Stan rubbed his back. "You want me to light the lamp?" Stan asked.

"No, the fire gives off enough light," Kyle said. "And I might be an infantile fool who's become afraid of the dark, but as long as you're here with me I'm fine."

"Shh, you're not a fool. I've heard them things when I'm walking home alone sometimes, late. Especially now, getting closer to winter. It's like walking through a crowded room with a blindfold on and cloth in your ears. You know you're not alone, but you can't see who's talking, or really hear what they're saying."

"Exactly!" Kyle said, and he pulled back to boggle at Stan. "That's exactly it. Oh, how are you so good to me?" He kissed Stan's face, then his lips. "On the way over here I'd half convinced myself you were an apparition, too, because you're like a dream, the good kind."

"I thought that about you at first," Stan said. "Suddenly there was this boy with bright red hair sitting in my meadow, wearing funny clothes, looking pale as death. But then you ate my apples, got some color in your cheeks. You want some milk or something?"

"No, God, don't leave me," Kyle said, and he clung to Stan, drawing him against the pillows, too. "All I need is this," he said, settling against Stan's chest. "Just this."

"Came here in your pajamas and everything," Stan said. He pulled the blankets up and tucked them around Kyle, cupping the back of Kyle's head after he had. Kyle had his cheek pressed over Stan's heartbeat again, his eyes closed. "You're still shaking," Stan said, scratching at Kyle's scalp with gentle fingertips. "You're alright now. Everything's gonna be alright."

Kyle believed this as he drifted to sleep, his leg sliding across Stan's lap. He wanted to be touching Stan everywhere, always. He needed this so desperately, in his soul even more than his body. In the morning he would try to explain this to Stan, though he felt he probably didn't need to. Stan's whole body seemed to hum with contentment against his, and Kyle knew Stan was glad he had come. Who else would receive him like this in the middle of the night, half mad and convinced he'd been pursued by ghosts? No one else; only Stan.

He had no dreams when he slept in Stan's arms, and woke frequently to readjust, glad for every interlude when he opened his eyes and remembered that Stan was there. Stan's bedsheets and pillowcase smelled fantastic, like a deeper and more personal scent of him that Kyle had previously not experienced. It was almost crotch-like, Kyle thought, deliriously, rolling over to press into Stan's naked chest again. He couldn't decide which he liked better: burrowing in close until he could barely breathe, or rolling over so that Stan's chest was snug against his back, Stan's stomach pushing out with his breath. Kyle kept alternating positions throughout the night, enjoying both. He had pulled off his own shirt at one point, and their legs were tangled up under the blankets, Kyle in his pajama bottoms and Stan in a pair of saggy long johns.

"I don't want it to be morning yet," Kyle mumbled when the dawn came, both of them half awake and nuzzling at each other.

"Mhm," Stan said. He had his hand on Kyle's side, his thumb tickling over Kyle's ribs. "It's Saturday, anyhow. Earlier in the week I'd be up and getting dressed for the mine."

"You don't have to work today, do you?"

"Yeah, you know I do. We do the short shift on Saturdays, after lunch."

"God, yes, I suppose I knew that. Stay with me until then, please? Right here, in this bed."

"Won't your parents be wanting you?" Stan asked.

"No, I always sleep until you come for your lesson. I suppose I'd better sneak back in before you're meant to show up. God knows how I'll do it - but that won't be for hours, right?"

"Yeah," Stan said. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Kyle's, his grip on Kyle's side tightening. "Damn, and I dreamed of this. Having you here. All warm and soft under the blankets with me."

"I'm not so soft," Kyle said, dragging his erection across Stan's knee. Stan grinned, his eyes still closed.

"Me either," he said. "Just the smell of you."

"What do I smell like?" Kyle asked.

"Like – you, I don't know. Like the one thing I want more than anything."

"But you have me already," Kyle said, and he groped for Stan's erection, feeling him through his long johns.

"Shit, though," Stan said, muttering. "I never have you long enough. And never like this. Where we can just – hide."

"The woods have hidden us pretty well so far," Kyle said. His eyes were watering, and he didn't want to ruin this moment of peace by thinking about how hard it would always be for them to be together. He pressed his mouth to Stan's, licked his lips apart, and tried to forget. They both had stale breath, but Kyle didn't care. He loved Stan's every flavor; there was nothing of him that Kyle didn't want to taste. "You should have me here," Kyle said when Stan rolled on top of him. "Really have me," he said, and Stan pulled back just far enough to look into his eyes. "While we can," Kyle whispered. "Who knows if we'll ever be together like this again?"

"Don't say that."

"Why not?" Kyle wanted to ignore it, but he couldn't. "Stan, what will we do? What will we ever do? I'm afraid – no, I'm sure – once I leave this bed I'll be in torture all my life, because I'm not with you, or not as close to you as I want to be."

"Shh," Stan said, and Kyle wished he hadn't let himself talk that way, because Stan's eyes were growing pink at the corners. "I told you, I won't be torn away from you. Not by anything."

"Show me," Kyle said. "Make me feel it. I'm scared, please, I need you – inside. All the way inside, all of you."

"You know I don't know how," Stan said, his voice breaking on the last word. Kyle shook his head.

"You do," he said. Every time they'd been together since that first time Stan pushed his fingers inside Kyle, they'd both wanted it, addicted to the feeling. Stan had already run out of petroleum jelly and bought a new jar.

"Just," Stan said, and he kissed Kyle for a while, sighing into his mouth, calming himself down. "Just let me build up the fire again," he said, whispering, and Kyle nodded.

Kyle took his pants off under the blankets, pushing his drawers down along with them. His whole body flushed with nervous pleasure, naked under Stan's blankets, and he curled onto his side to watch Stan tend the fire. Sparky woke up, and Stan patted his head.

"I'm gonna get him some breakfast," he said, turning back to Kyle.

"Yes, good," Kyle said. "I'd, um, prefer it if he wasn't present for this."

Stan grinned and came to the bed to kiss Kyle before he stepped out of the room, pulling on a battered old robe that hid his erection. Sparky followed him out, and Stan shut the door behind him to hide Kyle inside. Kyle ducked down into the blankets more deeply, until his mouth and nose were covered. He waited to feel scared, left alone again, but the fire was crackling brightly, and Stan's smell was still all around him, thick on the blankets. Outside, the mist had transformed into rain, and by the time Stan returned the rainfall was loud against the roof.

"It's coming down hard," Stan said, and he went to the window, pulling one of the curtains back so Kyle could see. The rain was like another curtain, protecting the house from onlookers, and Kyle was glad for it. Stan covered the window again and shrugged off his robe, then pushed down his long johns. He wore no drawers underneath, and he was still hard, smiling uncertainly as he came toward the bed. "Oh, here," he said, stopping and turning for his desk, where his bag hung on the back of the chair. He squatted down and fished through it until he'd come up with the petroleum jelly. Kyle pulled the blankets back for him, and Stan hurried into his arms, shivering. "Cold out there," he muttered, and he pressed his hot face to Kyle's neck, hiding. Kyle understood that he was nervous, that his trembling wasn't only due to the cold. He held Stan tightly, kissed his forehead, stroked his hair.

"Your dad's still asleep?" Kyle asked, whispering. Stan nodded.

"He'll sleep till noon." Stan still had the jar of jelly in his hand, and he touched it to Kyle's side, laughing when Kyle shouted, jerking away from its icy temperature. They tussled under the blankets, both of them laughing now, until Stan's knee slid up between Kyle's legs, making him gasp and go still.

"Touch me," Kyle said, reaching down to squeeze Stan's ass, hoping this would be an effective hint about where he wanted to be touched.

"It's like I don't know where to start," Stan said. "Now that I got you all to myself."

"Oh, who are you usually sharing me with when we do this? The trees?"

"Uh-huh. They like the sight of you," he said, and he grabbed Kyle's ass with both hands as he rolled Kyle on top of him.

"They told you that, did they?" Kyle said. "The trees?"

"Yep. That's why we been so lucky. Don't you feel lucky, though, mostly?" Stan said, his expression growing serious. Kyle nodded and kissed him. He knew what Stan meant, that they would always feel hunted and watched, ghosts or not, but they were still lucky to be alive at the same time, in the same place.

Kyle settled back onto the pillows when Stan reached for the jar of petroleum jelly, expecting this to take some time, and for Stan to need a lot of soothing and reassurance. His breath paused when Stan reached down to slick him, his finger sliding in easily as he pulled Kyle's legs open wider, his other hand wrapped around Kyle's left thigh.

"That good?" Stan asked, his face hovering over Kyle's. It seemed more like a kind of boasting taunt than a real question, and Kyle hadn't even managed to nod before Stan found the spot Kyle had trained him to search for. Kyle arched like he'd touched lightning, clenching around him in answer. He grabbed Stan's biceps and squeezed, grinding out a kind of throaty whine. It was somehow so much better from this angle than it had ever been in Stan's lap. "What is this little thing?" Stan said, teasing at it, making Kyle twitch violently. "The tip of your soul or something?"

"I t-told you, it's the prostate gland, ohh, yes, please, keep doing that, hard like that—"

"Well, yeah, you told me that's the scientific term for it. But that seems so short sighted or something. Look at you, Kyle, goddamn. Can't even hold your eyes open while I do this, can you?"

"Yuh – you have one, too. Don't be – so smug, ahh."

"Yeah?" Stan hummed and leaned down over him. Kyle tried to hold his eyes open, to prove that he could, but it was impossible with Stan rubbing him like that, going slower when Kyle started to fall apart. "Maybe I'll let you get at mine sometime," Stan said, nipping Kyle's bottom lip. Kyle grabbed his cock, jerked himself and came, sobbing with relief.

"Push in now," Kyle said, breathing this into Stan's mouth, limp underneath him as his cock throbbed and softened. "While I'm, while I'm still shaking from it."

"Yeah," Stan said, nodding in agreement with this plan.

"Not too much," Kyle said when Stan swiped up a ridiculous glob of petroleum jelly. Stan wiped half of it back into the jar and put the rest on himself. He was breathing harder just as Kyle's own breath was calming, and he sort of whimpered when Kyle pulled his legs up to his chest, angling himself toward Stan shamelessly. "You okay?" Kyle asked when Stan hesitated. He thought maybe he should put his legs down again; maybe he was being too shockingly open. It was one thing to have Stan's fingers working in there, another to show him what they'd done.

"Just give me a second," Stan said, and he ran his hand down over Kyle's chest slowly, making him shiver. "I want to remember this, how you look right now."

"Ha," Kyle said, feeling very self-conscious now. "How do I look?"

"Like you're mine," Stan said. He opened his hands over Kyle's ribs, covering them completely, as if every one of his fingers had been designed to press into the flesh there, until he could feel the ridge between every rib as Kyle sucked in his breath.

"I am yours," Kyle said, and Stan pushed into him then. He didn't go as slow as Kyle had expected him to. Kyle didn't correct him, just breathed through his nose, his eyes locked on Stan's. It burned a little, then a lot, and when Kyle winced Stan stopped, bending down to kiss him.

"Sorry," Stan whispered, paused where he was, maybe almost all in or maybe just halfway; Kyle couldn't know. He shook his head.

"Don't be sorry," he said. "I always liked this – this part. How it doesn't just fit, how I have to get pulled open. But I didn't know why, 'cause it wasn't like this. It wasn't like this, before you."

"What's it like with me?" Stan asked, looking worried. Kyle groaned and put his hand over his face, knowing that he wouldn't be able to say it properly while he felt like this, wanting to pull Stan in all the way, to tear himself open on the burn of Stan's dick.

"I just want it so much," Kyle said. "It's like – like. If I'm gonna get hurt, I want someone good to do it."

"I don't want to hurt you," Stan said, and now he looked like he'd cry. Kyle shook his head and pulled him down, clenching to get him in deeper. Stan's eyes fell shut, his mouth dropping open.

"Hurt was the wrong word," Kyle said when Stan was pressed to him completely, their stomaches shuddering together, Kyle's ass stuffed so full that his breath came shallow, as if Stan was butting up against his lungs. "It's not like hurting when it's you. It's like a hot spring as opposed to a pot of boiling water. See? Even though this water's hotter. Doesn't hurt. Just be still for a moment, though. You're about ten times bigger in there than you are in my hand."

"Damn," Stan said, his mouth wet on Kyle's neck. "Goddamn, you're so warm."

"Mhm."

"I never – never been warm like this." Stan put his arms around Kyle, lifting his head with some effort. Kyle squeezed around him when their eyes met, and Stan moaned, his forehead dropping to rest against Kyle's cheek. They stayed like for a while, Kyle's fingers moving in Stan's hair, the rain pounding the roof overhead. Kyle's stomach made a whining noise, and they both laughed. Stan jerked inside him when he did, and it felt mostly good, a little jarring. Kyle tilted his hips up, trying to feel that again.

"Go on," Kyle said when Stan lifted his head to look at him shyly. Stan moved back and pushed forward again, cautious until he heard Kyle's moan.

"You like it?" Stan asked, looking sort of proud of himself, and he snapped his hips again when Kyle nodded languidly. Stan scooted up to kiss him, and Kyle moved with him, his spine curling and his legs sliding higher on Stan's back. He groaned into Stan's mouth when this angle proved effective.

"Listen," Kyle said when Stan pulled back to study him, sighing.

"Hmm?"

"The rain," Kyle said, not even sure what he was trying to articulate. Mostly that this felt perfect, and that he was too aware that he was in a moment that would eventually end. He wanted to forget that, to believe that they could stay like this, or at least have it again on every rainy morning. Stan nodded and kissed him again.

"I always hoped it would be like this," Stan said. "Before I even knew what'd be going on under the blankets."

"And before you knew me?"

"Sorta," Stan said. "It's like - the opposite of lonely, you know?"

"I know."

"And I can't remember what it was like not to know you. Feels like I always did."

"It does," Kyle said. "It's like I was in a very dreary waiting room all my life. And occasionally someone would wander in and pummel me. Then you came and put out your hand, and we left together, finally."

"I can't believe we're talking like this while I'm-" Stan said, and he grinned, moving a little, as if to remind Kyle where his dick was.

"I like it, though," Kyle said, his voice sinking with slight embarrassment. Stan nodded and licked his cheek.

"You're so damn tight," Stan said. "And I just - I just want to-" He broke off there, and Kyle could feel him swallow.

"You should, though," Kyle said. "Do what you want to. I've - adjusted now. Or relaxed, or. You won't hurt me."

"You sure?"

"Yes," Kyle said, and he had to blink furiously, but the threat of tears passed quickly. "I'm sure."

Stan moved his hips in enthusiastic bursts of stamina, pausing between every little series of thrusts to kiss Kyle and pant against his mouth in astonishment. Kyle was very proud of him for lasting as long as he did. When he came he pinched his eyes shut and winced as if trying to hold it back, his hips still pumping into Kyle, and he let go when Kyle turned to kiss his arm, tasting sweat on his skin. Stan exhaled powerfully and dropped down onto him, his chest heaving against Kyle's, shoulders trembling.

"Sorry," Stan said when he got his breath, his face still pressed to Kyle's neck, eyelashes tickling Kyle's jaw. Kyle laughed.

"What for?" he asked.

"I - oh, I don't know. I think I meant to say thank you."

"Oh. Yes, thank you. C'mere," Kyle said, though Stan was still on him, in him. Stan lifted his head, and they kissed as their bodies separated. Kyle was still throbbing, clenching up as he felt Stan's seed leaking from him. Stan moved up onto the pillows and pulled Kyle into his arms, kissing his hair.

"I'll take care of you now," Stan said, softly. "Just let me get my breath, and I'll see to you."

"See to me?" Kyle said, confused. He hadn't gotten hard again; it was the first time he'd had a cock in him since that day when he was caught with Rodney, and it had been lovely, feeling that close to Stan, but it was a lot to adjust to, in more than just the physical sense.

"I mean," Stan said, "I'll clean you up and bring you food. Ain't that what you do?"

"I think so, yes," Kyle said. He felt as if there was a subtle fluttering all over his body and inside, too, as if he was being transformed, Stan's closeness sinking into him in some permanent fashion. "I've never been properly tended to," Kyle said. After sex with Rodney he had cleaned himself as discreetly as possible, and had helped himself to food if there was any, usually feeling disgusting as he did, as if he was accepting payment for services rendered.

"Well," Stan said, and he sat up on his elbow, still holding Kyle against him. "I'd do even more if I could. Put you in a hot bath and make you a feast, keep you here all day."

"Someday," Kyle said, not really believing this himself. Stan smiled and kissed his face all over, pausing to lick him in random spots, until Kyle laughed and squirmed in his grip.

"I kinda want to give you a tongue bath," Stan said, and he sucked on Kyle's earlobe for a moment. "Is that strange?"

"No," Kyle said. "I think it's perfect. God, but just hold me for a bit longer. Before any sort of bathing."

"Your stomach's growling," Stan said, but he did as Kyle asked, tucking him in close and arranging the blankets over him. The rain was still falling outside. Kyle hadn't realized how much he'd missed the ambient noise of the city; he wanted the rain to go on forever, keeping them together in this little house, providing a barrier between them and all that lay outside.

They huddled together in a thin sleep until Sparky started scratching at the door. Stan got up, leaving Kyle in the bed. He returned with hot water and a clean rag, then left again to make breakfast. Kyle washed himself by the light of the fire, growing hard when he felt his slight soreness. He forgot his erection completely when Stan reentered the room with bacon and eggs, and they ate together in bed, exchanging the fork and feeding each other strips of bacon.

"Gettin' kind of late," Stan said. "You want to get dressed?"

"Hell no," Kyle said. "But I know you're right. Well, come for your piano lesson, won't you?"

"I think we've waited too long," Stan said, and Kyle's stomach dropped. His mother might have been up to his room already. But she had been drinking the night before; there was a chance she'd slept late. "I gotta start the trek up the mountain," Stan said. "It'll take me longer with it raining like this."

"Do you really have to go?" Kyle asked. "What if there's a mudslide or something?"

"It's only been raining four hours or so," Stan said. "No mudslides, don't worry." He kissed Kyle's cheek, and pinched the chub at his hip. "Go on, before your parents notice you're gone. I'll walk you to town."

Stan loaned Kyle his old hat and some clean clothes that were too big for him, and they were mostly quiet as they walked together through the downpour, mud squeaking under their boots. It was as if they had been thrust out of Eden, Kyle thought, and here was what the rest of their lives would be like. He knew he was being dramatic, and was glad that there was at least no mist, or ghostly whispers.

"I'll never sleep in that room again," Kyle said, shouting over the rain. "Last time I dreamed of that thing it was nearly upon me - next time it will be sitting on my chest."

"I'm gonna speak to Clyde once I get up there," Stan said. "About holy water and so forth. I usually don't hold by that sort of thing, but this is an extreme circumstance." He touched the small of Kyle's back; they were still half a mile from town. "No one sits on you but me," he said.

"Well," Kyle said. "I certainly don't believe in holy water, but I'm at the end of my rope with this. Though I'm glad for last night," he said, more quietly. "And I'll never forget this morning."

"'Course you won't, 'cause you'll have it again," Stan said. "Somehow. I swear to you."

Kyle wasn't sure how he could believe this, unless Stan meant that they would rut up against the side of a tree sometime before the snow came. He gave Stan a weary smile.

They parted at the fork in the road, Kyle heading forward to the town, Stan going left toward the mountain. Kyle turned to look back over his shoulder after they'd separated, afraid that Stan might have disappeared like a phantom. Stan was still there, walking away with his bag slung over his shoulder, his hat heavy with the rain that ran over the brim. He looked so small when he was far away, and Kyle wanted to run to him and tell him this, that he was much smaller than the mountain and should be careful as he drew near to it. But that was ridiculous, and he turned for the town instead, feeling wretchedly alone.

He wasn't sure what the hour was; it was hard to tell with the cloud cover, the skies still almost as dark as they'd been at dawn. It had been a little past eleven o'clock when he left Stan's house, and the walk had felt so long in the rain, the downpour too oppressive to allow for much conversation. Kyle was dragging by the time he reached the front porch, and he stamped the mud off his boots, then took them off entirely when he saw that it was hopeless. He walked inside, thinking of a hot bath, but when we saw his mother sitting alone at the table with a cup of tea and a look of grave damnation on her face, he knew she wouldn't offer him anything warm.

"Oh," Kyle said, standing near the door. "I—"

"Don't insult me by giving me a story," she said. Her skin looked grayish, and he guessed by the bags under her eyes that she hadn't slept much. "I know where you were."

"Mother," Kyle said, trying to laugh. "You don't understand—"

"But I do!" she said, her eyes narrowing. "After everything we've done to help you, Kyle – you'd put yourself at risk like this, again? Your brother woke in the night with an episode, he's at the doctor's office with your father."

"An episode?"

"I looked in on you before we left, and I told your father we should let you sleep. But you were already gone – how long do you think this can go on? Do you think everyone will be kind like us, that you'll always be forgiven? I wanted to show you support, but I've ruined you with it!"

Kyle was silenced by that, not sure if he should continue denying his whereabouts or break down and weep at her feet. He took off his wet jacket, and Stan's hat.

"Shall I turn and go back out?" he asked. "Have I reached the limits of your forgiveness?"

"Bubbeh," she said, and Kyle's eyes watered when hers did. "I knew – some part of me knew as soon as you brought that boy here for a piano lesson. But I thought it wouldn't be a problem, that he'd be distracted by some girl before long. If he's – if you're both – you know I can't allow it. I can't let you do this to yourself again."

"It's not the same," Kyle said, his voice barely rising to an audible volume. His mother closed her eyes, both of her hands squeezed around her tea cup as if she wanted to smash it to dust in her palms.

"Of course it's not the same," she said. "It's another fantasy entirely. But it's just that, Kyle. A fantasy. You're so willful! Like me when I was young, but I wanted other freedoms, thank God. You know you can't live with a secret like this. Especially here, in such a small town."

"I won't be kept away from him," Kyle said, and he regretted that when she looked away, as if she no longer recognized him. As if some part of him had fled the house already.

"Get to your room," she said. "Before I say something cruel."

He went, too angry to cry. He didn't slam the door, afraid that his rage would give strength to some evil spirit. When he thought of Stan's note, wanting to draw comfort from it, he sucked in his breath with horror: if it had gotten wet, those words would be washed away.

He wasn't quite glad that he'd left the note in his pajama pocket, back at Stan's house, but was glad not to find it destroyed, transformed into a lump of wet paper and runny ink. He went to the window, not sure what he was expecting to see. The street was empty, flooding with water, the town in hibernation due to the weather.

Darkness seemed to fall quickly that day, behind the clouds. His father and Ike had arrived at the house just an hour after Kyle, and everyone was quiet, shut up in their rooms. Kyle expected his mother to come to his door to talk to him more gently, but she did not. It was his father, surely still in the dark about all things, who came to get him for dinner. Kyle claimed he wasn't hungry, and his father delivered two pieces of buttered bread soon after.

"You can't go without eating," he said, touching Kyle's cheek in a way that he hadn't done since Kyle was very small. "You know this."

"What's wrong with Ike?" Kyle asked. "Mother said he had an episode."

Gerald sighed and looked to the window. Kyle looked, too, but there was nothing, just the dwindling rain.

"Your brother is having a hard time here," Gerald said. "You should be kinder to him."

"He treats me like—" Kyle stopped himself there, not wanting to get into it. "I'll try," he said, and he looked to the bread in his lap, pinching off a buttery hunk.

Later that night, Kyle heard the rap of Stan's knuckles on the door downstairs when it was time to go to the Dark Horse. He ran downstairs in his coat and hat as quickly as he could, but he was too late. His mother had already turned Stan away.

"You'll stay in tonight," she said. His father was reading near the windows, smoking his pipe. Kyle looked to him; his eyes were still on his newspaper. "You missed dinner," Sheila said. "I won't have you out drinking on an empty stomach. You're taking too many risks. With your health."

"Mind your mother," Gerald said, muttering. Kyle turned and hurried up the stairs, his stomach torn up, as if it had been dragged over coals. There was a rage in him that would not subside, though he knew he had no right to feel such fury. His parents were good not to turn him out for what he'd done. He knew this, rationally, but he couldn't feel glad for it. He'd hurt no one by going to bed with Stan, by clutching at him for warmth in the night, or by loving him like this, so much that he felt it like a hole in his chest, burning outward. He would only hurt himself if he denied it.

He made no attempt at sleep, though his eyes began to droop as he read _Ivanhoe_. At some point he drifted off, and he woke when someone crept into his room, a dark figure who moved like a shadow.

"Ike!" Kyle said, his heart pounding. "What the hell are you doing?"

Ike stood there for a moment, barely illuminated by the dying light of Kyle's lamp. The oil was low, almost gone.

"Well," Ike said. He looked small and scared, and very pale. "I can't explain."

"Can't explain what? I've had a hard day, please—"

"There's something in my room," Ike said.

"Something?"

"I don't like being alone there."

They stared at each other. Kyle was still angry, and it would only be right to send Ike fleeing the room in humiliation the way Ike had done to him. He sighed.

"Come," Kyle said, patting the bed. "I'll relight the lamp. We could stay up reading for a bit."

"Fine," Ike said, and the way he rushed to Kyle's side was heartening. Also worrying – Ike was not easily spooked. Kyle put off his questioning, too moved by his brother's trust to pick at his reasons for needing company. He added oil to the lamp and picked up _Ivanhoe_ again. It was the sort of romantic novel that Ike usually hated, but he leaned against Kyle and listened intently when he read.

"Shall I put the light out?" Kyle asked when Ike began to drift to sleep, his drooling mouth resting against Kyle's shoulder.

"No," Ike said, and he glanced up at Kyle. "No, leave it on."

"Ike—"

"Don't make me tell you," Ike said. He pinched his eyes shut and clutched at Kyle's shirt. "It came last night. When you were gone."

"How did you know I was gone?"

"I didn't know." Ike shook his head, clawing at Kyle's shirt again, trying to get more of it into his fist. "I just felt it. Like some barrier against that thing was lifted. And I thought – Kyle's left us."

"I haven't – I won't leave," Kyle said. He put the book away and pulled the blankets up. "There, now. You're alright."

Ike slept, and Kyle kept watch of the room, wide awake. Nothing came. He thought he might have discovered something better than holy water to ward the thing off: the armless man was a lonely spirit that preyed on loneliness. Kyle felt stronger for being relied on, but no less cautious of the thing's power. Ike had rejected God at five years of age; he was not fanciful. If something had scared him this badly, it was not the sort of phantom that would be driven away by a night of brotherly compassion. It would be deterred, perhaps, but not defeated.


	5. Chapter 5

Kyle woke to an icy Sunday morning, his brother still curled at his side, loosely clutching at him for warmth. Though he'd done no drinking the night before, Kyle had a bad head, and his stomach felt painfully empty. He eased himself from Ike's grip and went to the window expecting snow. There was none, but Kyle thought it must be coming down at some higher elevation. He could smell it, and it made him shudder, as if he could hear the distant march of an approaching army's boots.

"Come down for breakfast," he said, shaking Ike's shoulder. He didn't want to leave Ike alone in the room, and wasn't sure either of them could be alone in the house from then on. Clearly his parents had seen nothing because they had each other at night, or perhaps it was their age that made them immune. Either way, Kyle still felt on edge, his eyes darting around the room while Ike yawned and scratched at himself.

Kyle dressed before going down and ate as quickly as he could, feeling his mother's watchful attention. He refused to acknowledge her, avoiding her eyes when he passed the butter. When he was through he stood and put on his jacket.

"And just where are you going?" she asked.

"To church," Kyle said, and Ike laughed. "Well. One of us has to do the work of keeping up appearances, don't we?"

"Oh, is that what you're doing?" Sheila said. The way she stared at Kyle told him she knew that he hoped Stan would be there; of course she knew.

"I find the population isn't all that interested in religion," Gerald said. "This place suits me in that fashion. But go if you like, just don't start to buy into any of that."

"I doubt we have that to worry about," Sheila said. Kyle turned his back on them and rolled his eyes, praying to his own God that Stan would know to meet him at the church after having been turned away the night before.

Outside, he felt assaulted by the cold, and he walked to the church with his hands in his coat pockets. The town was quiet; Kyle felt like this place was always waiting for something. It was unsettling, and he was in no mood for sermons when he reached the church, but he went inside anyway, desperate even to sit near Stan in silence for an hour.

The service was not well-attended, probably due to the cold, and Kyle found Stan quickly, sitting near the back. He was miffed to see Clyde sitting with him, but he knew that wasn't Stan's fault, or perhaps Stan had drawn Clyde's attention by asking if he could help Kyle with his evil spirit problem. Embarrassed by the thought in the light of day, Kyle made his way to them as quietly as possible, feeling Reverend Donovan's eyes on him. He always suspected that the Reverend could tell he didn't really believe.

"Hi," Stan whispered when Kyle sat beside him, and Clyde leaned over to give Kyle a wave. Kyle smiled quickly at Clyde and then let Stan see his true expression, one of desperate longing. He took his coat off, his elbow brushing Stan's arm in the process, and allowed his shoulder to rest just lightly against Stan's. He wanted so badly to crawl into Stan's lap and be held until the cold had left his bones, and the smell of the maple-cured bacon they'd eaten together the morning before made it difficult not to at least touch Stan's leg. Kyle spent the entire service imagining how Stan's mouth would taste: salty and warm with a hint of sweetness. His stomach was growling by the time the sermon ended.

"Stan told me the seance didn't work," Clyde said when they were all standing outside together, Stan and Clyde both smoking cigarettes, Kyle mourning for how the tobacco would corrupt Stan's bacon-flavored tongue.

"Well, no," Kyle said. "If anything, it made things worse. Now even my brother is admitting that he's seen things."

"Really?" Stan said. "This happened last night?"

"Yes, he came into my room terrified. Neither of you knows him well, but for this to occur he must have been on the verge of going mad from the fear - he's very prideful. But after we were together nothing harassed us, and this morning I think we both felt an odd sort of calm."

"Like the thing has left?" Clyde said.

"No," Kyle said. "Not like that at all - it's just that it doesn't know what to make of us teaming up, I think. Oh, Christ, listen to me." He sighed, hearing footsteps, and turned to see Kenny approaching. He was wearing threadbare clothes that were much too light for the weather, and he was covered in dirt, a shovel slung over his shoulder.

"Evening, boys," he said.

"It's morning," Clyde said.

"Are you alright?" Stan asked. Kenny nodded, eying Stan's cigarette. Stan passed it to him.

"So it is," Kenny said after he'd taken a drag. "Morning, I mean. How was the sermon?" he asked, and he looked at Kyle as if he knew that he hadn't heard a word of it.

"Fine," Kyle said, not wanting to offend Clyde.

"What have you been digging?" Clyde asked.

"Graves, Clyde," Kenny said. "Haven't I told you more than once? It's what I do at night. For money," he added, glancing at Kyle. "Craig is right that you don't listen very well," Kenny said to Clyde.

"I'm off to see him now," Clyde said. "And I do so listen. To him, anyway. Not that he's talking much lately."

"He's doing worse?" Stan said. Clyde shrugged.

"Hard to say. Hasn't been out of bed much, though. Ya'll better be praying for him."

Clyde left for Craig's house, and Stan offered Kenny a hot bath at the ranch, but Kenny declined and left for his shack, whistling.

"There's something off about him," Kyle said as they watched him go.

"You're just now noticing it?" Stan said.

"No, I'm just now - believing it, I think. God, this place would make me believe anything. Except, you know. About Jesus rising. No offense. Donovan isn't very convincing."

"I ain't offended," Stan said. He was smiling a little, but it faded. "Last night," he said. "Your mother-"

"She knows everything," Kyle said, keeping his voice low. "Or she's guessed, anyway. I all but admitted it in my rage. Stan, I think we've got to run away."

"You know we can't."

"I know."

They walked through the town together in miserable silence. Kyle wasn't sure what their destination would be, only that he couldn't risk going to Stan's house; his mother was expecting him back already. They wouldn't even get as far as the meadow without her sending Ike out to look for them, Kyle feared.

"You're hungry?" Stan said when he heard Kyle's stomach growl.

"I shouldn't be," Kyle said. "I've had breakfast."

"Well, it's nearly lunchtime now. Let me buy you something."

"I'm not hungry for anything you can buy at the store," Kyle said, and he glanced at Stan to make sure he'd understood. Stan sighed and nodded.

"I want you so bad," he said, mumbling this quietly, though there was no one else out on the street. "Even in church."

"Is that a sin?" Kyle asked, pleased.

"No," Stan said. "Not if I love you. And I do."

"Oh - that reminds me, my pajamas! I left them at your house, and the note, too. You'll have to get it back to me somehow - it's my talisman."

"I could just write you another one," Stan said, smiling.

"No, it wouldn't be the same! That was the first one, I - I treasure it, I always will. I want to be buried with it, if I die before you."

"Jesus," Stan said, and he took Kyle's elbow, pulling him into the alleyway between the blacksmith's shop and the barber, both closed on Sunday. "Don't say that." He pressed Kyle to the side of the barber shop, sheltering him from the cold wind.

"Someone will see," Kyle said, whispering.

"So let's go to the woods," Stan said. "I know it's cold, but-"

"I can't, Stan, didn't you hear me? My mother is against us now. Or worried, anyway, that I'll ruin the family again. I have to go back or risk her telling my father what she knows."

"And what would he do?" Stan asked. Kyle scoffed.

"Do you want your father knowing about this?"

"You know I don't, but I thought yours already knew about you."

"That doesn't mean he condones future romances!"

They were silent for a while, Kyle hot with anger that was directed more at his mother than Stan, though he was mad at Stan, too, for being so oblivious in the face of certain doom. He was mad at Stan for wanting to kiss him, even here, for looking sad about it, and for not daring it.

"We'll find a way," Stan said, but he didn't sound sure.

"Not here," Kyle said. "Not while I'm dependent on my parents. If my father finds out I've done this again he'll lock me in my room for good and make a law against anyone even shouting up at my window. And my mother will tell him, you can be sure of that. If I don't pretend to obey her and stay away from you."

"I thought she liked me?" Stan said.

"She likes you fine, she just doesn't want your hands down my pants. Can't you see that we have to run away somehow?"

"I'm all my dad has," Stan said, as if Kyle was being serious, and not just desperately upset. "And your brother - what if some evil thing gobbled up his soul as soon as you left?"

"How can you believe things like that?" Kyle said. He could feel himself getting mean, worn down from stress; Stan's face fell. Kyle leaned up to kiss him, quickly, just a peck on the lips. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I know how you can, of course - I've felt those things myself, but. Listen, maybe I can sneak out sometime. Not tonight, she'll be watching me like a hawk, but later this week. And she can hardly keep me from going to the Dark Horse. My father is too happy that I have friends there."

"I'll die if I can only sit next to you there and at church," Stan said. "Won't they at least let us hunt together? And how about the piano lessons?"

"She might come around," Kyle said, only to soothe Stan; she wouldn't. "But for now I think we'd better hold off. Oh, God, I'm dying already. I can still feel you inside me when I sit."

"I hurt you?" Stan said, and he took Kyle's hands between his, pressing them to make them warm. Kyle shook his head.

"You healed me," Kyle said, softly, and Stan bent in to kiss him. Before he could they heard a horse whiny, not far off, and they sprung apart.

Kyle went home soon after, heartbroken to watch Stan walk away after they'd shared only a few nervous kisses. He hadn't even tasted Stan's tongue. The Dark Horse was closed on Sunday nights, but perhaps Kyle would be allowed to go tomorrow. He was so dizzy with grief that for a moment he was cheered by the thought that they could get a room together for an hour or so, as Clyde and Bebe did, but of course they couldn't; they were two men.

The weeks that followed were cold and lonely, though Kyle had a bedmate every night. It was Ike, who had ordered books on metaphysics in order to explain the phenomenons he'd experienced, and in the meantime was talking Kyle's ear off about his theories. He slept for maybe two hours a night, and tossed and turned even then; Kyle was sleeping poorly in his company but unwilling to turn him out, especially since he'd had no vivid dreams about the armless man since Ike had joined him in the room at night. While Ike muttered to himself and fidgeted endlessly, Kyle held his pillow and longed for Stan, or at least for the opportunity to stroke himself off to thoughts of Stan's bed and their night together. He'd had to restrict any attempts at grim self-pleasure to his bath, and he was only bathing three times a week, the cold too severe to allow for much relaxation as he dreaded emerging from the cooling water.

When they could be alone together, Kyle was animalistic in his hunger for Stan, which was appropriate, as they were always in the woods when they had each other. The snow had come, still just a thin dusting, and Kyle was no longer allowed to wander on hunting trips every weekday - his mother claimed, for his father's sake, that she was worried about his health - but once in a while, when she was distracted by some community function, he could slip away and be with Stan for a few stolen hours. Stan would leave the mine as soon as he could, find Kyle in the meadow and pull him into the safety of the woods, both of them too excited about the presence of the other to manage to say much. Stan's bag served as his cushion when he found the base of a tree that would suit what they were about, and Sparky would patrol the perimeters of whatever clearing they'd end up in as Kyle squatted awkwardly over Stan's lap, hot inside his clothes while Stan kissed him, his fingers sneaking down into Kyle's pants and drawers to do their efficient work inside Kyle's ass. Kyle never let Stan prepare for very long, and hissed gladly at the burn of Stan's cock when he sank down onto it, all the cold he'd suffered since his last parting from Stan momentarily erased. They always tried to make it last, but with Kyle controlling the pace they rarely achieved this, because he would start bouncing frantically as soon as he found a good angle.

"Stay," Stan would say after, every time, as if Kyle had ever been eager to pull off of him. Stan would wrap his coat around Kyle's back, tucking him against his chest and holding him there while he went soft inside Kyle, sighing and humming and stroking Kyle's hair. The cold would close in on them little by little, until it felt like a stinging whip across any sliver of skin that was exposed, but still they lingered, shuddering, clinging to each other.

Darkness fell early now, and the oncoming night was the only thing that could separate them once they'd locked themselves together again. Kyle had the vague inclination that the woods would not protect them at night as they did during the day; something descended over the treetops as darkness fell, and it wasn't just shadows. He could see that even Stan had a sense of foreboding as they made their way back toward the meadow, Kyle's ass still aching and dripping, Stan's fingers closed tightly around his hand.

"It's never enough," Stan said one night as they were walking through the meadow, their footsteps slow now that they'd left the woods. A light snow was falling, catching on Stan's hair and melting into it as Kyle gazed at him sadly. Stan seemed truly angry, his jaw tight.

"I know," Kyle said, afraid that this anger was directed at him. "I just don't want to risk my father finding out and doing something drastic. He uprooted his whole life to take me away from there, and I think he still believes the corruption wasn't my fault-"

"Maybe we can get away," Stan said, seeming as if he'd barely heard Kyle. "I could save a little money. My dad hasn't done right by me for years - why should I stay here just to take care of his drunk ass?"

Kyle said nothing, only sighed heavily. The sex they'd had an hour before had been especially intimate; Stan had held Kyle's face the whole time, barely breaking eye contact. Stan had been shaking throughout, and Kyle had feared it was from the cold, but now he could see that Stan was unraveling, that the short, infrequent and painfully secret meetings were taking a toll.

"I know you, Stan," Kyle said after they had walked some more in silence. "You wouldn't be happy leaving your father here, however little he owes you. It's the same reason I would be heartbroken to run off. My family - but my parents have done so much for me, really. They've protected me, despite everything. My mother is killing me with her scrutiny, but I know I would destroy her completely if I ran away, abandoning them to this sanctuary they made for me. We can't - we simply can't."

It seemed that one of them was always taking up this sad argument when the other came to the end of his rope, eviscerated by yet another separation and no way of knowing when they could be together again. At the edge of the meadow Stan turned and grabbed Kyle suddenly, risking an embrace with no cover of trees to shield them. Though he knew it was dangerous, Kyle held on to him, burying his face against Stan's neck.

"It's not just the sex," Stan said, his voice muffled on Kyle's shoulder. "I know it must seem that way, 'cause I get at you as soon as there's a tree to go behind. But that's just how it comes out. I want - everything, all your free minutes, and I'll never have more than a few."

"You don't know that," Kyle said, though it was pathetic to pretend they both didn't know very well that there would only be more eyes on their friendship as they aged, and more reasons to stay apart. He breathed in the heat of Stan's need for him, wanting to store it up for later and warm himself by it in bed.

"I want," Stan said, and his eyes were wet when he pulled back to hold Kyle by the shoulders, "To - to sit with you by a fire at night while I mend my boot laces. And to make you meals twice a day and read with you in bed. I want to be with you so much - so often, I mean - that we don't even think to tear each other's clothes off sometimes. So much that we just sit and don't think about the other one being there, but we're calm, 'cause he is."

"I know, I know," Kyle said, and he stood up on his toes to kiss Stan, his heart wild with fear that someone would spot them, though they were still far from town. "Darling," Kyle said, softly, feeling like a fool. Stan rested his forehead against Kyle's and sighed, his breath warming Kyle's cheeks.

"I shouldn't complain," Stan said. "What if you'd gone to some other town after New York? What if I'd never known life could be like it is when you're with me? It's enough." He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, then out. "It's enough."

"To hell with that," Kyle said, and Stan smiled, his eyes still closed. "It's not enough. I fantasize about that morning so often, you've no idea. Waking up with you like that, and the eggs, the bacon, the dog at the foot of the bed. The sex, too, of course," he said, and Stan opened his eyes.

"We've got to try for that again somehow," Stan said. "Isn't there any excuse you could give for disappearing for one night?"

"Maybe," Kyle said, and he thought of Ike sleeping alone, Stan's insane observation that his soul might be gobbled without Kyle's protection. "We'll try, Stan. All we can do is try, and be glad to sit next to each other at the goddamn Dark Horse. You'll be there tonight, won't you?"

"I'm always there, Kyle."

"I know." Kyle kissed his cheek, softly. "I just like to hear you say so."

They parted before they reached the road, Stan taking the back way toward the ranch so that Kyle's mother wouldn't spot them together. She knew Kyle still saw Stan at church and at the bar, and that he sneaked visits with him sometimes, too, but Kyle didn't want to test her tolerance of even these paltry meetings. When he arrived at the house he was glad to find her distracted in the kitchen, making bread. She'd gotten slightly better at it in recent weeks. Kyle lingered there with his coat still on, warming his hands by the oven.

"And where have you been?" his mother asked.

"Walking," Kyle said.

"It's late, Kyle – it's been dark for almost an hour. I'd scold you for walking alone in the woods at night if I thought you'd actually been alone."

"What am I to live for if not this?" Kyle asked, meeting her furious gaze. "What do I have here but him?"

"Quiet!" his mother hissed. "Don't talk like that while your father's in the house. Go upstairs and clean up for dinner. I can't spare another word of good advice that you won't take."

The mood at dinner was tense, as had become usual. Kyle's father did most of the talking, telling them that they should expect more immigrants from Denver in the coming months, before the big snow. There had lately been several battles in Kentucky, and it was being reported that the confederates had taken it. There was a fear in the city that they might continue westward, and those who didn't want any part of the war were making for smaller settlements where they might slip through the cracks.

"This means more work for me, of course," Gerald said. "I've enlisted the Sheriff and that piss poor mayor in some attempts at planning for the influx."

"Gerald!" Sheila said, putting her fork down. "Listen to you! You sound like a mountain man."

"What did I say?" Gerald asked.

"Piss poor," Ike said.

"Oh." Gerald frowned at his potatoes. "Well, I suppose I've acclimated a bit, but I'm still shaving every morning."

"I was only teasing," Sheila said, and she sighed. "Though I do feel like I'm losing control of all of you. Ike, I hear you wandering about the house late at night. You know I don't like that."

"I have not been wandering!" Ike said. "Nor has Kyle," he added, offering Kyle a conspiring glance.

"This house is haunted," Kyle said, glad to talk about some scandal that was not caused by him. "Frankly, Ike and I both believe we should find another dwelling place as soon as possible."

"What what?" his mother said. "What are you talking about?"

"Boys, really," Gerald said. "You've never been fanciful."

"Well," Ike said. "Kyle has certainly been fanciful once or twice, but, Father, I think he's correct in this. I don't yet know the nature of the metaphysical presence that has somehow manifested here, but I can assure you that it is observable, at least to Kyle and I, in a fashion."

It was evident right away that Kyle's parents were not willing to take any talk about evil spirits seriously, but Ike went on trying to argue that the metaphysical world held properties not yet recognized by science, and Kyle poked at his food, counting the minutes until he could leave for the Dark Horse. Nothing now seemed more important than his time spent with Stan, even if that time was passed at a crowded table in a noisy bar. As soon as his father put down his napkin, Kyle leapt out of his chair and brought his plate into the kitchen.

"You're always in such a rush!" Sheila said, as if she didn't know why. Kyle was aware that these types of statements were meant to warn or remind him how to behave under his father's watchful gaze, but he found that, more often than not, Gerald's gaze was actually quite less watchful than hers, and he hardly seemed to notice as Kyle shrugged on his coat and headed for the door.

"Don't stay too late," Ike said, looking cross but also nervous, and Kyle felt for him; he still had no friends here.

"Are you really afraid to be alone in your room?" Gerald asked. Ike grunted and tore a slice of bread in half, unwilling to answer for his fears, despite all his ranting about the properties of metaphysical energies.

"Maybe he just wants his brother to represent our family well by returning home at a reasonable hour," Sheila said. She cut Kyle a look. "I don't think that's too much to ask."

"I won't be long," Kyle said, and it was true. He needed to see Stan nightly, to have a drink with Stan's thigh pressed to his on the bench, but it was also agony, knowing that a leisurely day in the woods wouldn't necessarily follow, and the boasting talk of the others grated on him more than it had before, as did Clyde's freedom to take Bebe upstairs and pay her for joining him. Kyle left the house in a foul mood, tucking his arms across his chest to keep out the cold. Stan no longer came to the door to retrieve him; they met at the bar like the others.

The mood at the Dark Horse matched Kyle's, and he learned why almost as soon as he sat down, taking his usual place between Stan and Clyde. Wendy Testaburger was missing. Her parents were with the Stotches, asking for an organized search party. Butters was absent, presumably at home amid the panic.

"I'd better not find out you had anything to do with this," Stan said after they'd all sat for some time in grim silence, staring at their drinks. He was talking to Cartman, whose eyes bulged.

"Me?" Cartman said.

"No, no," Kenny said. "It wasn't him."

"And how would you know?" Kyle asked, in support of Stan, though he felt nervous at making such an accusation.

"Wendy can take Cartman in a fight, for one thing," Clyde said. "When we were kids she beat his ass in the schoolyard. I bet she just ran off to the city to aid the soldiers coming in from Kentucky."

"Without telling her parents?" Stan said. "And who would have driven her there without anyone knowing? No, something here ain't right." He drained his drink and slumped back in the booth, his shoulder resting against Kyle's.

"We'll take part in the search party," Kyle said, and he touched Stan's leg under the table, lightly. "But - I'm sure she's okay, somewhere. She's too smart to have - gotten lost?" Kyle wasn't sure what to say; Stan was tense, his angry gaze still fixed on Cartman.

"I know she's too smart for that," Stan said. "That's what makes me think she ran up against some bastard who did something with her."

"Yeah?" Cartman said, snarling at him. "Maybe she ran up against you, since you're so sure."

"Don't be dramatic," Kenny said. "Wait and see."

"Now why are you acting like you know something?" Stan asked. He picked up his empty tumbler and slammed it down again. "And don't feed me any shit about being a mountain spirit, I ain't in the mood."

"You don't want to go accusing more than one of your friends of murder in the same evening, Stanley," Kenny said, and his eyes seemed to change, the light there sharpening into something dangerous. "That wouldn't be too wise."

"I can't sit here drinking while she's-" Stan said, and he stood from the table. He was unsteady on his feet, and Kyle was quick to help him, throwing some coins down for their drinks. He found that he missed Craig even more than usual, and Bebe, who was busy with another table. Even Butters might have had a calming presence. Kyle was glad to push outside into the chill of the night, following behind Stan.

"I don't know Cartman as well as you," Kyle said when they were standing outside, around the corner of the Dark Horse, Stan lighting a cigarette. "But I do remember him threatening Wendy, once. Tell me - do you really think he might be responsible for her disappearance? Because I'll go to my father right away if so."

"Fuck," Stan said, and he winced. "I don't know. Shit, fuck. I can't think. She was the first one who was nice to me when I moved here. What if she's alone somewhere, scared? I can't stand it. I shouldn't 'a drank, we should go out now with lanterns-"

"There's no chance she could have left town without saying why?" Kyle asked. "Perhaps she had some argument with her parents? You and I talk of doing something similar daily," he said, more quietly.

"I don't know," Stan said, shaking his head. "I hadn't talked much with her lately. But she's real level-headed. I can't see her just running off when even - when even me and you ain't got the nerve."

"We should go to Butters' house," Kyle said, and he grasped Stan's arm, squeezing it. "If if would make you feel a bit better?"

"I don't know what would," Stan said. "Seems like the whole goddamn world is falling apart. Craig-" He broke off there, and Kyle nodded. He'd heard that Craig had taken a turn for the worse as the temperatures dropped, which was the opposite of what the doctor had expected.

"Say," Kyle said as they walked down toward the Stotches' house. "You don't think Wendy's disappearance has anything to do with Craig's illness, do you? As if - his parents might suspect Dr. Testaburger's care hasn't been good enough? And they took some sort of revenge on his child?"

"That's - dramatic," Stan said, and he gave Kyle a sad little smile. "And I'm not making any more sense, shouting at Cartman, I know. But - no, I don't think so. I'd say the most likely thing is that she got lost walking, but she's never been one for walking in the woods."

Kyle didn't dare suggest that the voices they had both heard in the mist had anything to do with the very real disappearance of a girl they knew. He could tell that Stan was thinking of this, too, but said nothing.

By the time they reached the Stotches' house, the Testaburgers had already gone home. They spoke with Sheriff Stotch, who told them that if Wendy hadn't returned by morning a search party would go out at first light. Stan and Kyle both volunteered to join; Kyle was glad for the chance to do something productive, after so many weeks of not even giving Stan a piano lesson. They had a cup of coffee with Butters and Millie, who was silent as usual, only sighing in agreement when someone expressed concern for Wendy's safety.

"She'll be alright," Kyle said when they came to the fork in the road where Stan would walk to the ranch and Kyle back into the center of town. It was late, and most households had gone dark.

"Something's wrong, though," Stan said. "I can feel it. Let me walk you home."

"Don't, please, it's less than half a mile - look, you can see our porch light from here, the only one still lit. My mother will be waiting up, and I can't bear her spying on us through the windows. I'll be alright," he said, leaning up to press his face to Stan's.

"What if you disappeared," Stan said, his voice a mumbled whisper. Kyle could feel Stan's eyelashes on his cheek, could smell the coffee on his breath and longed to taste it. He sighed and pulled away, afraid they would be seen.

"I won't disappear," Kyle said. "And don't dare it yourself. Tomorrow we'll look for Wendy - or maybe she'll have returned home by then. Maybe she's got a secret beau. Kenny does seem to know something, but I doubt it's anything vile. He's a good person, I think."

"I made him mad," Stan said. "I shouldn't have said that. Guess I was drunk."

"He'll forgive you," Kyle said. "Now go on, goodnight. I'll see you in the morning." The reason for this was grim, but Kyle couldn't help being glad to know he would see Stan in the light of day. He'd had a bad feeling himself for some weeks, as if some terrible accident was forthcoming; a collapse at the mine was the dread he imagined most. To have Stan above ground all day would be a comfort.

Back at the house, Kyle was surprised to find that both of his parents had already gone up to bed. So had Ike, it seemed, but he wasn't in Kyle's room as usual, with his lamp and a book, ready to scowl at Kyle and ask what had taken him so long. Kyle went to Ike's room to retrieve him, and a chill went through him when he saw that Ike wasn't there either. He poked around Ike's room a bit, and his feelings of uneasiness increased as he moved from corner to corner, wishing he'd thought to light a lamp before entering. The whole house was dark and quiet.

Kyle retrieved his lamp from his room, lit it, and eyed his bedroom closet. There was no reason to suspect that Ike was in there, and yet he felt compelled to check, as if he might rescue Ike from some danger just by opening the door. He gathered his courage, bolstered somewhat by the whiskey he'd consumed, and went for the door. He winced when he opened it, backing away, as if a foul wind had burst forth. In fact there was nothing, only the dark, and he brought the lamp forward, his hand shaking. The things that he stored there all seemed to be in order, and his brother wasn't hiding among them. It wasn't like Ike to play pranks, and especially now, when he was scared enough to talk about metaphysical energies at the dinner table. Kyle shut the closet door, and when he turned back to the room he immediately regretted ever opening it. The air felt different, charged. For the first time in weeks he knew he was being watched.

"Ike!" he said, angrily, his heart beginning to pound. He went down the hall and back into Ike's room, but he hadn't appeared there, either. Ike's room had no closet; there was one across the hall, and when Kyle examined its contents he found only towels and spare sheets, and the faded smell of their apartment in New York. Distantly, Kyle realized that it had been some time since he'd thought of Rodney at all. He shut the closet door and felt a kind of pitiful anger close over him, as if something he'd vanquished had only been playing dead. He thought of pounding on his parents' bedroom door and telling them that Ike was missing, but he had hardly searched the whole house, and Ike was known - or so they thought - for wandering about at night. Kyle would have noticed if he had, even before they were sharing a room. Something else had been wandering about the house.

He went down into the kitchen, the gaping space of the front room seeming to hum like a generator from which the deeper darknesses of the house drew power. The kitchen was empty; Kyle could feel it before he entered. He swept his lamp through the doorway only as a cursory gesture, then quickly retreated.

Part of him knew, as he searched the front room, that Ike was not down here, and where he actually was dawned on Kyle like the sound of cold laughter from another room, the hair on the back of his neck prickling in warning. He looked up at the second floor landing, his arm shaking as he raised his lamp. There were seven small rooms upstairs, three occupied as bedrooms and a fourth as his father's office. The other three were empty, closed up, full of sheet-covered furniture and dust. Kyle knew Ike was in one of them, and could think of no reason why that wasn't the work of some evil force.

In his hurry to rescue his brother, he didn't even think to enlist his parents. He dashed up the stairs and threw open the first door, hardly remembering to be afraid for himself. It had been foolish of him not to always have considered Ike to be the one of them who was in the most danger: he was youngest, and the most alone, and probably had been suffering with some spiritual harassment for months before his pride allowed him to seek Kyle's help. He was not in the first room; Kyle knew almost right away but searched anyway, the lamp swinging in his hand and casting mean shadows on every wall. He hurried out and went to the next room: no, he wasn't there, either. He was in the room Kyle was most afraid of, the one at the end of the hall, with the indent on the inside of the door that was about the size of a fist. Kyle had accused Ike of leaving the door open in the past, as if Ike knew the room unsettled him and wanted to taunt him with it. Ike denied this fervently, but Kyle had had no doubt that he was responsible, because he had seen Ike going in and out of the room before. Now Kyle's footsteps slowed. He could hear a faint creaking sound - it was coming from inside the room.

The walk to the end of the hallway took a long time, but he couldn't make himself move any faster, as if he was walking through thick mud. When he reached the doorknob it felt colder than the rest of the house, and for a moment he was sure that he'd been wrong, that Ike wasn't in there, because the coldness felt like a symptom of long disuse. But when Kyle opened the door and lifted his lamp, he did see a figure sitting in the room, facing away from him in an old rocking chair that had been left by the previous owner. It was broken, two of the wooden bars missing from its backing, a third one only half there.

"Ike!" Kyle said, and he hesitated to enter the room fully, afraid the door would slam and trap them both inside. Ike continued rocking, staring at the moonlit window. There was something - inaccurate, because Kyle could think of no better word - about Ike's movements. As if he wasn't a young boy but a very old man. "Ike!" Kyle said again, but he got no response. Determined to believe his brother was only sleepwalking, Kyle pushed the door open further, stepping into the room.

He was almost afraid to see Ike's face, but there was nothing wrong with it; he didn't even look frightened. He looked calm, except that his eyes were dancing around as if he was watching an invisible circus act. Kyle put the lamp down and grasped his shoulders.

"Ike!" he said, and he shook he shook him until Ike met his eyes. Ike was slow to do so. He blinked, and that was slow, too.

"Kyle?" Ike said, and he narrowed his eyes with confusion, as if Kyle was the last person he'd expected to find here.

"What the hell are you doing?" Kyle asked. "Get up, get out of here, you're acting like a lunatic-"

"My mother," Ike said, and he was like lead when Kyle tried to pull him out of the chair. "I was talking with her, she was here."

"Mother is asleep, Ike. You're dreaming, you're sleepwalking or something-"

"Not your mother," Ike said, and he gave Kyle a look that frightened him, but it faded quickly. "Mine. She's left, though. You've scared her away."

There was something wrong about Ike's voice; it was slightly higher pitched than normal. For a moment Kyle was certain that this wasn't Ike at all, that the real Ike was in some other room, but that was ridiculous. He got Ike out of the chair and led him from the room, closing the door behind them.

"You've had some kind of dream," Kyle said, speaking quietly as he led Ike toward his bedroom. "Perhaps - there's something behind it, I don't know. The ones I was having certainly felt that way, as if they existed outside of me somehow. Just come in here and come back to yourself."

Ike's floaty demeanor changed, and he began to seem irritable and tired, more like himself. He sat on Kyle's bed, frowning and rubbing at his eyes.

"Where was I just now?" he asked as Kyle added more oil to his lamp; clearly they would leave it on. Kyle's whole body felt cold, and his heart was still pumping hard. He kept thinking he heard faint music, but when he paused to listen it would be gone.

"Where were you?" Kyle asked, and he felt Ike's forehead. He didn't feel feverish; in fact he was rather cool, and Kyle thought of the way the doorknob had felt when he grasped it, like something long untouched. "What do you mean, where were you? We've just walked out of that room - the one at the end of the hall. You're not to go in there again - I'll have dad board it up if I have to."

"What are you talking about?" Ike asked. He was mumbling, batting Kyle's hands away like a sleepy child. "You were late coming back," he said, and he flopped down to the pillow.

"I'm sorry," Kyle said. "If I can expect to return to this sort of scene, it will never happen again. But a girl has disappeared - I went to see the Stotches after we left the bar."

"What girl?" Ike asked.

"The doctor's daughter. We're going to search the foothills for her tomorrow. You're welcome to join us."

"No thanks," Ike said, and he rolled toward the wall, gathering Kyle's pillow against his chest.

"Well, why not?" Kyle asked. "It's better than sitting around here in some kind of - trance. Ike, I'm worried. Don't you remember going into that room?"

"What room?" Ike mumbled, and then he was asleep. His exhaustion was perhaps most worrying; Ike was never tired. Kyle lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, still jumpy and wracked with anxiety. He slept only a few hours, and was yawning when he dressed to join the search party at dawn, stumbling into his trousers.

They did not find Wendy that day, nor any sign of her in the woods or along the road. Even Cartman joined the search, perhaps to prove Stan wrong, and by the end of it he seemed just as disheartened and bewildered as the rest of the party. The miners were only allowed three days away from work to search, and on the fourth day of Wendy's disappearance a pall was cast over the town, thicker than the fog that had come in autumn. Kyle felt as if he had stumbled into a frightening dream with the rest of the town, and he kept an eye on Ike for any further signs of lunacy, but Ike just snapped at him and told him that he didn't know what Kyle was talking about. He continued, however, to share Kyle's bed and hog his blankets.

Stan was gravely quiet in the days after the search was called off, and scarcely seemed to know where he was most of the time. He came to the Dark Horse but didn't drink much, mostly just cupping his hands around his glass of whiskey and turning it occasionally. Out of respect for Wendy, perhaps, they did not play cards or talk as loud as they once had, and Bebe did not go upstairs with Clyde. News of Craig was not good, either; he was no longer allowed to have visitors. Kyle thought he was probably too proud to let himself be seen when he was so weak. Even Sparky was turned away at the door to the Tucker house.

"You've got to come meet me tomorrow," Stan said when Wendy had been gone for a full week. He was walking Kyle home, dragging in his steps.

"Meet you where?" Kyle asked. He had been willing to disobey his mother for some days, only waiting for Stan to ask him to. "In the meadow?"

"Yeah," Stan said. His eyes were on the road, which was wet and muddy from salted down snow. "In the meadow. I need you," he said when he looked up at Kyle. "Not just there. I been thinking. If we get a deer, I could bring you back to my house with it. To help carry it, I mean. Then I could keep you there saying that I was helping you learn how to clean the kill. I always said I'd help you do that." His voice was partly vacant, but there was rawness in it, too. He had bags under his eyes. Kyle was already nodding, struggling not to cling to Stan's arm as they walked.

"Yes," Kyle said. "I need you, too." He hadn't been alone with Stan enough to even tell him about the strange development with Ike.

"As soon as I can, I'll get away from the mine," Stan said. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Kyle agreed, and he dared to brush his icy fingertips against Stan's. Neither of them ever wore gloves when they knew they might see each other, no matter how frigid the temperature. It was the only way they could touch, most days.

Kyle woke early the next day, and the morning hours passed slowly. He played piano to kill time in the afternoon, imagining that Stan was beside him. Kyle missed the piano lessons almost as much as the walks through the woods, because of the way Stan frowned in concentration when he played, and breathed steadily through his nose as he tried to keep rhythm. He'd been a good student.

"That was nice," Sheila said when Kyle stopped playing. She was sitting near the front windows, mending one of Ike's shirts. Gerald was at work, and Ike was with him. He'd been tagging along to the courthouse almost daily, with the excuse that he wanted to study law whenever they finally sent him off to a new school.

"I'm out of practice," Kyle said, and he closed the lid on the piano. He decided not to delay any longer, though he doubted Stan would be down from the mountain already. "I've got to go out for a while," he said, standing. "A few of his are doing another sweep of the woods, looking for Wendy. And I might hunt, too," he added, defiantly. She kept her eyes on her mending.

"That poor girl," she said. "If she was out there somewhere - no, it's too horrible to think about. Freezing to death. And that Tucker boy, wasting away in his bed, not even eighteen - come here, bubbeh."

"Why?"

"Just come!" she said, and he did. She stood to hug him, and Kyle rested his head on her shoulder for a moment. It was more of a comfort than he'd expected when he deigned to approach her. "Poor bubbeh," she said, rubbing one hand over his back. "I know there's not much for you here. When the war is over, we'll try to find another place."

"But I have everything here," Kyle said, and he pulled back. "Everything, mother. I love him." He realized then that he'd never said so to Stan. But of course he knew.

"He's not something that can be had," she said. She spoke softly, and there was no anger in her eyes this time. "Not by you, Kyle. Not without grave, grave consequences. You know - we only want to protect you, even from yourself."

"I've got to go," Kyle said, pulling away from her before his voice could pinch up. He heard her sigh and he banged out onto the front porch.

It was bitterly cold outside, an overcast day. More snow had fallen the night before, and men were shoveling the road. Kenny was one of them, but Kyle didn't stop to greet him, not wanting to interrupt his work, and embarrassed, too, that he had no occupation himself. He tried to imagine what would become of him if he stayed here, sneaking meetings with Stan until - when? Old age? Would either of them even reach that, Stan working in the mine until his back gave out, Kyle wasting away from loneliness after his family had moved on and his friends settled with women? He walked more quickly, unable to truly care about anything but the meadow, and if Stan would be there waiting or if he would have to hunker down at the base of some tree and try not to freeze.

Stan was not there, but Sparky was, snow dusted in his fur. He seemed happy to see Kyle, trotting around his feet in circles as if he shared Kyle's excitement about the forthcoming approach of Stan, and of course he did. When Kyle found a tree to sit against near the frozen creek, Sparky crowded up against him, and Kyle held onto him for warmth while they waited.

"I'm so jealous of you," Kyle said to Sparky, who turned to him, panting happily. "You sleep with him every night."

Stan arrived sooner than Kyle had expected, based on the amount of light behind the cloud cover. Sparky bound away from Kyle and across the frozen creek, giving Stan a bark of acknowledgment. Kyle wasn't far behind, and he threw his arms around Stan when he reached him, sort of falling into the embrace, the snow making his steps clumsy.

"Mhmm," Stan said, his face buried against Kyle's neck; his nose was very cold, but Kyle didn't mind. "Sorry you had to wait."

"I don't care, I don't care," Kyle said, clinging to him. "You're here. You smell like a mineshaft - Stan, oh. I hate the thought of you down there. It must be so cold in the dark."

"It doesn't matter," Stan said. He pulled back and kissed Kyle, moaning at the heat of his mouth. Stan tasted like his usual workday lunch: salted pork and yeasty bread. It was heavenly on Kyle's tongue, so good that he was sort of inadvertently trying to climb Stan, who laughed at his efforts.

"Take me here," Kyle said. "Just quickly, to hold us over until we get to your house."

"It's too cold," Stan said. He kissed Kyle's nose, his cheeks. "You're already shivering. And if we take the kill back to my house we can sleep after, in my bed. Just for an hour or so, but. I want it so bad, Kyle."

"You'll have it," Kyle said. "But what will we find to kill? I haven't even seen a squirrel since I've been here, everything's buried."

"Hunting's easier in the snow," Stan said. "For me, anyway, 'cause I'm no good at finding tracks without it. And I feel lucky today," he said. They kissed again, and when Kyle swooned against him Stan picked him up wholly, both of them laughing into each other's mouths as Kyle's legs wound around Stan's waist. It was the first time Kyle had even seen Stan smile since Wendy had disappeared.

They tracked what they thought was a deer, but when they'd found their prey it turned out to be a wayward mountain goat. Stan seemed relieved; he hated killing deer. He did touch the goat's horns sort of tenderly after he'd shot it, and stroked its little beard.

"Poor fella," Stan said. "He must have got lost, all alone out here."

"Let's hurry," Kyle said, unable to feel what Stan did for these random dead creatures. "I'll carry him through town - we can say you hurt your back during work." Kyle stood, frowning. "Do you ever hurt it?" he asked. "Your back or - anything? I worry, you know."

"Mostly my shoulders just get real sore," Stan said, and he hoisted the dead goat up onto them, wincing a little.

"Let me do it," Kyle said, though the thought of goat blood dripping onto his coat was making him ill already.

"You can carry him through town, like you said."

"Right, well. I want to rub your back when we get there. Can I?"

"Shit yeah, you can," Stan said, and he pecked Kyle's cheek before they headed away from the blood-stained snow, back toward the meadow.

Nobody questioned them about their conveyance of the goat as they moved through town, and Kyle gave it back to Stan as soon as they were on the road to the ranch, his back aching from having carried it two miles. He knew Stan's back must be hurting worse, but he claimed he was fine, holding two of the goats legs in each hand as he carried it on his shoulders. Kyle was exhausted by the time they reached the ranch, and Stan cursed when he saw smoke coming from the chimney.

"My dad's awake," he said. "Shit."

"Well - of course he's awake, it's nearly five o'clock." Kyle didn't know much about Randy's daily habits, but he'd generally gotten the impression that he woke in time for the typical drinking hours. "He won't bother us, will he?"

Stan made a noncommittal noise, and they took the goat to the barn. Kyle thought they would leave it there, wash up, and climb into Stan's bed, but Stan laid the thing out on a butcher's block as if he meant to actually show Kyle how to section it into steaks.

"Can't we go in?" Kyle asked.

"With him in there?" Stan shook his head. "He won't be drunk yet. Shit!" Stan turned away from the goat and groaned, his hands over his face. "He ruins everything."

"We could take some blankets up to the loft?" Kyle said, eying the one overhead. His heart was sinking, too, but all was not lost.

"It's filthy up there," Stan said. "It ain't fitting, rutting you like you're some animal. I want you - I want you in my _bed_." Stan had goat blood on his face now, along with the lingering dirt from the mine. Kyle moaned and went to him, using the sleeves of his coat to clean Stan's cheeks. Stan stood there limply like a scolded child, his eyes downcast.

"Maybe your dad will walk to town," Kyle said.

"He never does in the winter. I'm stuck here, Kyle, I'm so stuck."

"Oh - Stan." Kyle surged up to kiss him, but he fell back when he heard a door open out in the yard.

"Stan?" Randy called. Stan cursed under his breath and put his hands on Kyle's shoulders.

"Might as well have a butchering lesson," he said, mumbling. Kyle had never seen him look so miserable; usually he was the optimistic one. It seemed that every day more light went out of his eyes.

"Oh, there you are," Randy said when he came to the door of the barn. Stan had moved away from Kyle then, and toward the knives that hung on the wall. "Evening, lad," Randy said, and he lifted the bottle of ale he was holding. Kyle had to wonder if Randy remembered his name.

"Sir," Kyle said.

"What's that, a goat?" Randy came forward to boggle at the creature on the table.

"Seems that way," Stan said irritably. "Move off, I'm showing Kyle how to skin something."

"Goat meat's pretty tough," Randy said. "A fine kill, though, m'boy," he said, and he slapped Stan on the shoulder.

"Don't pummel me when I got a knife in my hand," Stan said.

"Any news about the doctor's daughter?" Randy asked as Stan got to work, Kyle trying not to look too closely at what he was doing.

"She's still missing," Kyle said. "It's horrible. Wendy was - I'm fond of her."

"Stan is, too," Randy said. "He's been a real grump since she left town."

"She didn't leave town necessarily," Stan said. The noise that the blade made as he sawed through bone was horrible; already Kyle was regretting his heavy lunch. "We don't know what happened to her."

"Pretty girl like that?" Randy said. "I bet she met some dude her father didn't take to and decided, 'to hell with the old man, off I go.'"

"Wendy wouldn't do that," Stan said. "Not without a note. She has a sense of responsibility."

"A lot of good folk lose their sense when they fall in love," Randy said.

Stan had no response, and Kyle had nowhere to look but at the goat. He felt himself go green as he nodded, pretending to listen to Stan's instructions. Kyle couldn't pay attention to the words, too horrified by the visual demonstration. Randy's occasional belches didn't help; he smelled of fermentation.

"I'll take the heart," Randy said when Stan got to it. "Them kidneys, too, and the liver - want me to do us a fry up? Kyle, you staying on for dinner?"

"I don't think so," Kyle said. He was holding down vomit and feeling unsteady on his feet, as if he'd swallowed too much whiskey too fast.

"Kyle's got to get back," Stan said. "Here." He handed his father a pan of organs that he'd put aside. "Cook 'em with some onions, and don't use too much salt. I'll do some potatoes when I get back from town."

"What are you going back to town for?" Randy asked.

"To pray," Stan said, keeping his eyes on his work. "I got one friend dying and one disappeared. Donovan's doing a night service."

Kyle knew Stan's real reason for returning was that he didn't want Kyle walking back alone in the dark. Though it was embarrassing, Kyle was glad for it, and for his quick lie. Randy left for the house with the organs, and as soon as Kyle caught of a whiff of that greasy fried meat on the air, he rushed into the corner of the barn to be sick, hunching over a bucket. He'd noticed it there earlier and had planned to use it if necessary.

"Okay, okay," Stan said, speaking gently and squatting down behind Kyle as he leaned over the bucket, trying to spit the bad taste out. Stan wiped his bloody hands on a rag and took Kyle's shoulders, easing Kyle back against him as he helped him stand. "I know," Stan said, and he rested his chin on Kyle's shoulder. "I know, I know."

Kyle turned and flung his arms around Stan, burying his face against Stan's neck. He was shaking all over, disturbed by something deeper than the gore. It was everything, everything. Stan held him tight and whispered, shhh, though Kyle wasn't speaking, just breathing hard.

"I'm an infant," Kyle said, his face still hidden. "I can't even walk back to town alone."

"It's not that you can't," Stan said. "It's that I won't let you."

"I do feel like I'll disappear without you. When you're not there, everything blurs and goes surreal. I'm a ghost without you."

"Kyle," Stan said and he sighed. He turned and looked at the door of the barn, but there was no one to see them, Randy busy with cooking. "I just want to keep you here," Stan said, his voice soft with resignation. "It's such a small thing to want, ain't it? Really? Since you want to stay?"

"I do, I do," Kyle said, still clinging. "Though maybe not to eat goat organs." He lifted his face and tried for a genuine smile. Stan kissed his attempt away, and Kyle pulled back when he realized that he must taste like vomit.

"I don't care," Stan said, but he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Look," Stan said. "Maybe this was stupid, thinking I could have you here. Tomorrow, meet me again. If you can?"

"I can," Kyle said. "I think my mother is afraid for me, but I don't think she's willing to put a stop to my happiness, not altogether. She looks at me and sees how much I need you, and she hurts for me. I saw it this morning."

"Then come to the meadow," Stan said. "I want you here, but I'll have you any way I can. Even if we don't pull our pants down, I don't care. I just want to walk with you a while."

"Yes," Kyle said, and he pressed his face to Stan's chest, hiding there. "Yes, me too. We'll be together tomorrow. That's all I need to know to stay sane for one more night in that wretched house."

Kyle told Stan about the development with Ike on the way home. It hadn't happened again, but it still haunted Kyle, particularly because Ike claimed not to remember it at all. Stan was such a patient and attentive listener that Kyle had to stop his story three times to pull him into some shadows along the road and kiss him.

"I think I will go to the church and pray," Stan said when they neared town. "If you want to come with me?"

"I'd better get back," Kyle said, worried about Ike. "I've been gone all day - but pray for me, too, if you like. And for my brother."

"I will," Stan said. "And for us. For me and you."

"God help us, indeed," Kyle said, and they walked with their hands clasped for a few paces, as if to seal that.

At dinner that night, Kyle's appetite returned, and he told his father about the hunting trip and the butchering lesson. Ike was envious; he was fond of dissecting things. Sheila was mostly quiet, and Kyle knew she was wondering if any of this was true, or if he'd actually spent the whole afternoon in bed with Stan.

"Look," Kyle said, lifting his hands. "Blood under my fingernails."

"How grisly," Gerald said, but Kyle thought he seemed proud.

"Kyle gets everything," Ike said, and he jabbed at his boiled carrots angrily.

"Go wash until that's gone!" Sheila said. "Honestly, Kyle. At the dinner table. We shouldn't even discuss it while we're eating."

That night, Kyle was wearied by Ike's endless questions about bone saws and the approximate size of a goat kidney. He made Kyle promise to bring him along next time, and Kyle did, not meaning it.

Kyle fell asleep before Ike did, and woke in the middle of the night to a prickling feeling along the length of his spine. He sat up, alarmed, and searched the room for unwanted visitors. Though he saw nothing, he thought he felt some new presence, not the armless man or a young mother who had mistaken Ike for her own orphan. The air in the room seemed to crackle with menace, and Kyle thought he heard a distant wailing. He turned his back on the room, huddling up next to Ike for warmth.

In the morning, there were no teeth littering the floor, but Kyle still felt as though something had changed, and he couldn't put his finger on what. It was snowing rather heavily, and Kyle wondered if this meant that the mountain passes the miners used would be closed for the day. He had no way of knowing, but he was confident that Stan would meet him in the meadow regardless of any change in his work schedule. Kyle spent the day helping his mother make a stew that they would have for dinner, and he felt, generally, that things between them had mended in a quiet way. He knew this didn't mean that her concerns for him were any less legitimate, but he felt a kind of peace as he dressed to meet Stan.

"You can bring him for dinner," Sheila said, just as Kyle was almost out the door. Kyle turned back in surprise, and she looked away, sighing. "The poor boy could probably use a nice meal."

"Yeah," Kyle said, and he struggled not to prostrate himself in gratitude, not wanting to test his luck. "He could, I'm sure. I'll ask him. Um, thank you."

"Be careful," Sheila said sternly, and Kyle nodded. He knew she wasn't warning him about taking care while walking in the mountains, but about not being seen while they did other things. He left feeling elated, and barely noticed the cold until he'd reached the end of the road.

He arrived at the meadow a bit later than usual, the snow and driving wind slowing him down. Stan wasn't yet there in their usual space, and neither was Sparky. Kyle buttoned his coat up to his chin and leaned against a tree, wishing he'd brought a book, though the cold was too intense to allow for much concentration. He decided they probably wouldn't have sex in this weather, although the thought of Stan's hot mouth around his cock was delightful as he stood shivering.

After an hour or so, he sat, his previous elation crystallizing into something sharp at the pit of his stomach. Already it was beginning to get dark. The miners must have had to stay late; maybe they were in the process of clearing one of the passes.

Darkness fell, and Kyle heard voices in the distance. His sense of reality was so skewed that at first he suspected a whole procession of ghosts, then realized it was the mine workers coming down together. He hurried toward the sound of their voices, hoping that Stan hadn't split off on some other path to meet him. He noticed Cartman first, because he was fattest, and Clyde walking behind him, chewing something. There was Butters, chattering away to Kenny, who spotted Kyle first. He waved, but Kyle ignored him, scanning the group for Stan. He wasn't among them.

"What are you doing out here, princess?" Cartman asked when he saw Kyle running toward them.

"You look frozen," Butters said. "Did you get lost?"

"Where's Stan?" Kyle asked.

"Isn't he with you?" Kenny said. "He packed off at least an hour ago. I thought you two were meeting up to hunt."

"We were, but he didn't come," Kyle said. Already his heart was beating hard, his blood beginning to roar in his ears. "I - we have to go back, he must have gotten cut off somewhere."

"He'll find his way out," Clyde said. "Stan's better than anybody at knowing his way 'round the woods. I bet if we go to the Dark Horse he'll show up-"

"No!" Kyle said. "No, something must have happened, he might have hurt himself. We have to go back and look for him, all of us!"

"What's this?" the foreman said, turning back to shout.

"Stan's got lost," Kenny called back. "We should look for him, in case he's hurt. Before the storm gets worse."

"Goddammit," the foreman said, and the others grumbled, too, but they turned back, Kyle trying to control his breathing. Stan would be fine; they were acting quickly. The foreman split them into two groups, and Kyle was glad to be with Kenny, less so to have Cartman along.

"It's not fair," Cartman said as they tromped back up into the foothills, three from the other group shouting Stan's name. "We gotta work overtime just because Marsh is stupid enough to get his ankle twisted or some shit? We'd better get paid for this."

"Shut up," Kenny said. "Stan would do it for you."

Kyle ignored both of them and shouted Stan's name, tripping in the snow, barely able to walk straight. Kenny had given Kyle his lamp, and Kyle was swinging it around wildly, unable to stop turning in circles or calling Stan's name. Finally he lost his voice, and the oil in the men's lamps began to get dangerously low. Kyle was ready to protest when the foreman called them back to the meadow, but he wasn't sure what he could say: that he would stay out here in the dark, alone, and wait? He was babbling at Kenny as they walked back toward town, making plans to get more oil and go back out.

"It's dangerous in the mountains at night," Kenny said.

"All the more reason to keep searching for him!" Kyle said, his voice just a strained croak now. "We can't leave him out there in weather like this! We've got to get more men for the search party and continue as soon as we've got enough oil-"

"Marsh is probably back in town having a drink," the foreman said. "And even if he's not, I'm not authorizing my team to keep searching in this weather, not in the dark."

"Authorize them or not, it's their choice!" Kyle said, and he turned his wild look on Kenny. "I know I'm coming back out, even if I have to do it alone!"

"Stop ranting," Kenny said. "I'll come with you."

"Not me!" Cartman said. "I won't be the third person swallowed up in two weeks. Or the fifth, I should say, since you two won't make it back alive if you go back up in this blizzard."

"He's right, you can't!" Butters said, tugging on Kenny's arm. "Stan wouldn't want you to put yourselves in danger, too!"

"I'm sure the only thing Stan wants right now is to be found and taken home!" Kyle said. Not only was his throat raw, his chest was, too, as if he had been clawed from the inside. So far his rage at everyone else's response was protecting him from his utter horror at the thought of Stan out there in the dark, alone and hurt. "We only went halfway back to the mining camp. When we return we'll go all the way up-"

"You're crazy if you think you'll be able to dig out those passes with just two men," the foreman said. "Calm yourself, boy - Marsh takes the same pass down the mountain that we all take every day, and we would have seen him if he was still on it. Even if he'd gotten pushed around a bit in the snow, he would have heard us coming and called out if he needed help."

"If he was conscious!" Kyle said, and he chewed his tongue to keep himself from chanting oh God, oh God, oh God.

"He probably just had some business that didn't involve you," the foreman said coldly, and he turned away. "Now let's get the hell to town before we lose our light."

"Come on," Kenny said, taking Kyle by the elbow when he stood his ground like a petulant child, only Butters hanging back while the others moved on. "Let's get back, warm up for a minute and think about a plan."

"Stan can't warm up, though," Kyle said, looking back and forth between Kenny and Butters, wanting them to understand how profoundly wrong this was, and how small a window they had to stop the world from ending. "I know he's in trouble - he wouldn't have left me there like that for anything. And I can't find Sparky!"

Kyle went to his house to get his own lamp, Kenny and Butters following. He ignored his parents' protests as he dashed upstairs for the lamp and other supplies: warmer clothes and gloves for digging through snow. There was so little time, the snow coming down hard, and Kyle was on his way back out the door while Kenny and Butters were still in the process of explaining what had happened.

"Bubbeh, stop!" Sheila said, and she grabbed Kyle's arm. "How do you know Stan didn't go to the ranch, or somewhere else in town? You can't go back up to the mountain in this weather, it's insane!"

"I know he's not in town," Kyle said, yanking free. "He was supposed to meet me there, and he wouldn't have left to go somewhere else without telling me." He thought of what Stan had said about Wendy, his certainty that she wouldn't have left town without telling anyone. "The rest of you can check around town and come get us if you find him safe. In the meantime, I'm going back, in case he's hurt. Mother, he could die if we don't hurry." He looked to Kenny desperately, and Kenny sighed.

"I'll fill my lamp," he said.

"Now what are youdoing?" Sheila said when Gerald went for his coat.

"I suppose I'm going with them," Gerald said. "But boys, don't be hasty. Let's gather some other volunteers so we have a proper search party, not just a few who'll need rescue, too, before long. And Kenny and Butters should really stay back to rest, since they're coming from work."

"I'm okay to go," Kenny said. "Butters, though - why don't go get your dad, and Stan's dad, and anyone else who's willing to go out looking?"

"Can I come?" Ike asked, shouting from the stairs, where he sat on the bottom step.

"Absolutely not!" Sheila said. "Kyle - Gerald - please, at least wait until morning."

"He could be dead by morning," Kyle said, and he went out the door.

The snowfall seemed to have intensified, or maybe Kyle simply hadn't noticed it before, blinded by panic. His scrambling terror at the thought of Stan lost on the mountain in the midst of this storm had hardened into angry determination: Stan would not be taken from him. Kyle would fight whatever mountain gods were waiting with his bare hands if he needed to, Kenny included.

"It's madness to go up like this at night," Gerald said. "Kyle, wait. Wait for the others to assemble."

"That might take hours," Kyle said. "Every second counts. Doesn't it?" he asked, looking to Kenny, who sighed.

"I can't see straight when it snows like this," he said, and Kyle was alarmed by the sense that Kenny wasn't talking about his physical field of vision, but of some other property, his ability to see the fates of those who were lost on the mountain.

"Do you know anything about what happened to Wendy?" Kyle asked. Kenny shrugged.

"Only that she didn't die out here," he said.

"Wendy?" Gerald said. "The girl who disappeared? But how can you know that? Do you have information about her disappearance?"

"No," Kenny said. "Just a gut feeling."

Kyle could sense that his father didn't buy that answer, but he hardly had time to care right now. He couldn't even pay much attention to where he was stepping; already he had tripped twice, and he kept having to relight his lamp, not taking enough care with keeping it out of the wind.

He was determined to find Stan himself, and right away. He wanted to scream in the face of the storm to show it that he wasn't afraid, but an hour later, only a quarter of the way up the trail, he felt less bold. The passes were already partially snowed-over after the miners' efforts to make their way back down, and the wind seemed to be changing direction constantly, pushing them around like lightweight bits of rubbish. Kyle's voice already ruined, Gerald and Kenny took turns calling Stan's name out, but every time they did the only answer was the forbidding howl of the wind through the trees.

"We have to go back!" Gerald said before they were even halfway up the trail. "This is too much work for three people - we'll go back for the others, or start again at first light."

"You go back if you must," Kyle said, though he knew his father was right. He was exhausted from the climb, though they were making very slow progress, and his face was growing numb. He felt, too, as though Stan was still very far away, as if he'd been blown clear to the other side of the mountain.

"Kyle, listen to him," Kenny shouted. "Stan would want you to go back and rest. We can't continue on like this much longer."

They returned to town, the numbness Kyle felt seeping into him more deeply, until he could hardly remember the walk home as his mother helped strip off his coat. Kyle asked her if another group had gone up yet to search, and she said she didn't know. He was sure that this meant no one else was searching, or would until morning. Though part of him had accepted the grim reality that there was nothing they could do to help Stan in the dark blur of a bad storm, he felt like a traitor and a coward when he sunk into the hot bath his mother had made for him.

"I won't survive this," he said when he realized, belatedly, that his mother was washing his back, tutting over him while he hunched in the water. "Unless," he said, and left it at that. Unless, somehow, miraculously, Stan was found unharmed.

"You said that in New York," Sheila said. "That you'd never survive if people knew. Well, they did, and you have. Ach, that poor boy. But – someone will find him, bubbeh."

"It'd be better for you if they didn't, wouldn't it?" Kyle said, though he was really too tired to be cruel.

"No, Kyle," she said, and she sounded so broken up that Kyle turned to look at her apologetically. "Anything that breaks your heart breaks mine, too," she said. "Don't you know that?"

"Mom," Kyle said. "What if he's. What—"

"Shh," she said, and she wrapped a towel around his shoulders when she hugged him. "Let's not assume the worst."

Kyle didn't sleep, just sat in fresh clothes in the front room, staring at the window, waiting for first light. As the hour of dawn approached, others began to arrive; Mr. Stotch had made the Broflovski residence the official meeting place of the search team, and Sheila served coffee to everyone while Ike flitted among the growing crowd, getting in the way. Kyle thought gathering here was a bad omen, because nothing good could start out from this place, but he was too drained and defeated to try to explain why. When the first light broke the horizon, the snow was still falling.

There were only twenty-five men; the foreman from the mine promised more would be up later, after this group had tired out. Kyle felt as though, after those three days of looking for Wendy and finding nothing, these men were already expecting to repeat the experience, as if this was just some hollow exercise done out of respect for Randy, who was blubbering at intervals, possibly still drunk from the night before. Kyle tried to set out alone, angry enough to be deeply foolish, but Kenny and Butters kept close to him, herding him back toward the group when necessary.

Something in Kyle knew that they weren't going the right way, but he was hopeless at navigating even without the snow, and with everything blanketed in white he felt like he was just walking in circles. He was increasingly tired and snarling at Butters' every comment, trying not to think about where Stan was right now: trapped under a fallen tree? Motionless at the bottom of a ravine? The thought of the body that Kyle had sheltered against being broken made him sick with dread, and worse was the thought of Stan being alone and afraid, unable to get warm. At one point Kyle had to stop to dry heave along the path. When he first heard Sparky's bark, he assumed he was hallucinating.

"Ain't that Stan's dog?" Butters said, and Kyle whirled in the direction of the barking, half-expecting Stan to bound out of the woods along with Sparky.

Only Sparky was there, and he stopped to bark at them for just a few seconds before tearing back into the woods, clearly agitated.

"He wants us to follow!" Kyle shouted, his torn up voice making him sound insane. He supposed he looked insane, too, when he went running after the dog at full speed, moving over the snow with new energy, leaving the others in the powdery dust he kicked up.

He'd gone maybe fifty feet when the ground gave way beneath him, snow shattering down into the dark with him and providing an ineffective cushion against the rock he landed on. Even Sparky was peering down into the hole of sky above him by the time Kyle's thought process and vision had cleared enough to show him that he'd fallen into a deep, narrow cavern that had been hidden by the snow. The voices of the others seemed even farther away than they looked, maybe fifteen feet up, and Kyle could barely make out their words, his brain still fuzzy from the fall. He turned onto his side, coughing, and shouted at a sudden, knifing pain his ribs. His shout echoed through the cave that seemed to be both ahead of and behind him.

"Kyle!" Gerald said, possibly for the ninth or tenth time. "Are you alright?"

He didn't know how to answer, and shouted again when he tried to sit up.

"He's got a broken bone," Kenny said. "At least one – try to stay still!" he said, shouting this down into the hole. More snow was falling from above in wet chunks, landing like globs of spit against Kyle's cheek and neck. Outside of the ring of light from above, everything around him was dark, and the rock he'd landed on smelled the way Stan did when he came out of the mine, like some clean but sinister alternate world.

"Don't move," someone else said when Kyle fidgeted. He grunted angrily, too tired for this amount of pain and confusion. Almost as soon as he rolled onto his belly, he saw the light coming toward him.

It was a miner's light, bobbing as if carried by a man who was walking with confidence rather than urgency.

"Stan!" Kyle shouted, and Sparky barked overhead.

It wasn't Stan, and though Kyle recognized the person holding the light, it took him a moment to place the face. It was Craig, bundled up in a well-fitted coat, a scarf bunched under his chin, his lantern blazing as if he'd just refilled the oil.

"Hey," Craig said when Kyle stared at him, aghast. People were still shouting to him overhead, but it seemed unimportant. "I found Stan," Craig said. "C'mere, I'll take you to him."

"You," Kyle said, crawling toward him, willing to believe any promise that he could see Stan again. He felt as if he'd fallen into some dream world, and he was still waiting to be frightened, not just strangely relieved. "You – I thought. You were sick?"

"You didn't hear?" Craig said. He frowned. "I got better. Hurry, follow me."

He helped Kyle up, and Kyle ignored the sound of the others, all of them asking him to stay put until they could get him out. He was holding Craig's hand as they walked into the dark, and he still wasn't scared. His ribs didn't hurt anymore.

"Is Stan okay?" Kyle asked when they were completely enclosed in darkness, Kyle running his hand along the wall of the cave as they walked. The walls of the cave were narrow, just wide enough for them to walk side by side, Kyle's shoulder bumping against Craig's.

"Stan will be fine," Craig said. "It's not that much further. C'mon, hurry."

"I'm glad you're doing better," Kyle said, because he felt it would be rude not to mention Craig's health. His palm was warm against Kyle's, and surprisingly soft for someone who had been working in a mine for years. Stan's hands were much rougher. Kyle tried to remember when, or why, he'd removed his gloves. He could see a faint light ahead in the distance, bright white. "How'd you find Stan down here?" Kyle asked.

"I wanted to do something useful," Craig said. "I felt like I hadn't – done enough. And Stan used to send his dog to keep me company when I was sick. He was nice to me."

"Was?" Kyle said, and a shock of worry broke through his dazed acceptance of what was happening, but it didn't persist. The light up ahead was the mouth of the cave, and Stan was sitting near to it, his back to the wall and his legs stretched out in front of him.

Kyle let go of Craig and vaulted toward Stan, crying out with relief. Stan's eyes got huge when he saw Kyle, and he shouted when Kyle dropped down onto him and hugged him close. It took Kyle a moment to realize that Stan's shout had only partly been out of joy at seeing him; his right arm was dangling limply from his shoulder, and Kyle rearranged himself when he saw that it was broken. Kyle's ribs were aching again as he brought his hands to Stan's face and cupped his cool cheeks, laughing and crying with relief.

"I'll go get the others," Craig said, and he walked out of the cave, back into the snow.

"You – you're here?" Stan said. "You came from there?" He looked into the dark of the cave, then back to Kyle. "Or am I dead?"

"You're not dead," Kyle said, unable to stop laughing crazily or kissing Stan's face. "Oh, God, thank God, you're going to be okay. Did you fall down here, too?"

"Yeah, last night," Stan said, and he pulled Kyle closer with his good arm, tucking him to his chest and kissing his hair. "I'd gotten turned around somehow, like the woods turned against me, everything was all mixed up. Then I fell down here, and, I. Kyle, I was sure I was dead. My mother was here."

"Your mother?" Kyle said. "In a dream?"

"It must have been," Stan said. He looked so tired and cold, and Kyle unwound the scarf he had tucked into his coat, wrapped it around Stan's head and tied it under his chin. "It must have been a dream," Stan said, looking dazed. "But, but. I couldn't see, and it was so cold. It had got dark by the time I fell down here, and I was screaming for help, but I knew no one would hear me, I'd gotten so far off the trail somehow. And then – she was just with me, I felt it. I couldn't see her, but I could hear her voice. She was singing like she had when I was a kid, when I was scared, and she led me here, told me to wait, that she was going to get help. She stayed with me here, though, in the dark, until morning." He was crying, and Kyle was still kissing his face, tasting his hot tears.

"Stan, Stan," Kyle said, and he realized he'd been murmuring Stan's name under his breath all throughout that story. Kyle didn't care if it was true or not, but he thought it must be, that the good spirits of this place would send help for Stan if some evil ones tried to lead him astray. "The others will be here soon," Kyle said, though he wasn't sure that was true. "Craig seems to think he can find them, anyway. I just hope he can find his way back before the snow covers his footsteps."

"Craig?" Stan said.

"Yes, he said he would get the others when he left."

"When he left – where?"

"Here," Kyle said, pointing to the mouth of the cave. "He – did you not see him? He brought me here. He must have heard me fall. How did he find you?"

"How did—?" Stan was frowning, shaking his head. "Kyle, what? What are you talking about?"

"You didn't see Craig just now?" Kyle's spine prickled the way it had it in his bedroom, and he looked down at his hand, the one that had held Craig's. "Let me see something," Kyle said, and he pulled Stan's left glove off, moaning with relief when he felt that Stan's hand was still rough, his nails black with dirt from the mine. "I think Craig is dead," Kyle said when he looked up at Stan again.

"But you just said—"

They heard voices then, a large assembly of them, and a dog barking. Kyle got up and dashed for the mouth of the cave, arriving there just as Sparky did. He waved his arms over his head until the others saw him, and wasn't surprised to see that Craig wasn't with them.

"The dog tore off suddenly," the foreman said, breathless from the chase. "I don't know how we all got it in our heads to chase him, but we did. Goddamn, son, are you okay?" He knelt down beside Stan, and Kyle went to throw himself onto Stan again, barely remembering in time that he couldn't do so in mixed company. Sparky was on him in the meantime, licking Stan's face the way Kyle wanted to, like a mad act of repossession.

"My arm's broke," Stan said. "And – I don't think I can walk."

"We brought a stretcher," Kenny said. He was panting from the run, and beaming at the sight of Stan. At his side, Butters was praising God. When Randy finally caught up with the rest of the group, he threw himself down at Stan's side and wept, his face pressed to Stan's thigh. Gerald arrived next, and he grabbed Kyle to examine him for injuries.

"Why did you walk off like that?" Gerald asked, shaking him once to scold him for it. "Did you hear Stan calling?"

"Something like that," Kyle said.

"My boy," Randy said when he straightened up, and he took hold of Stan's shoulders, his hands shaking visibly. "Thought I'd – if your mother knew I'd almost lost you."

"Careful, dad," Stan said, wincing when he tried to roll his hurt shoulder.

Kyle helped Randy and the foreman hoist Stan onto the stretcher after they'd unrolled it, and when they tucked blankets around him Kyle wanted to add his coat, his shirt, everything he had to make Stan warm again. Kenny was examining the cave as the others prepared to leave, touching the rock like he was combing a pan of silt for gold.

"What are you doing?" Kyle asked. "C'mon."

"I'm coming," Kenny said, though he was still touching the rock. Kyle scoffed and left Butters to deal with him, hurrying after Stan's stretcher. He'd been insulted at not being asked to help carry it, though his broken ribs were a legitimate reason to disqualify him.

The trek down the mountain with Stan as precious cargo seemed to take half a day, and when they arrived in town there was a group of women gathered on the porch at the Broflovski household, drinking coffee while they waited for news. Ike was among them, talking to a man Kyle didn't recognize, someone unwashed and unshaven, smallish; he and Ike were both smoking cigarettes, a sign that Kyle's mother had been too distracted with worry to notice much of what was going on around her. As they drew closer, Kyle saw that Wendy was there, too, her hands pressed over her mouth as she regarded Stan on his stretcher.

"Bring him to my father," Wendy said when she ran down from the porch. "He's ready to receive him – Stan, oh!"

"Wendy?" Stan said, blinking up at her. He'd been quiet for most of the journey, speaking only to reassure Kyle and Randy, when they asked, that he was okay.

"They said he was lost for less than twenty-four hours?" Wendy said, grabbing Kyle's arm when he tried to follow the men toward Dr. Testaburger's house. This trapped Kyle into the embrace of his mother, who was so frantic with relief that she was cooing over him in some combination of Yiddish and Polish that he could barely interpret.

"Twenty-four hours – yeah, I think," Kyle said, unable to count at the moment. "Where were you?"

"I'm so embarrassed," Wendy said, and she tugged on the ends of her hair like a girl. "My father was furious, he told me there were search parties – and now Stan, really in need of one, oh, God, I've been so horridly selfish."

"How so?" Kyle asked, though he barely cared, turning to watch Kenny and Butters follow Stan's stretcher into the doctor's house. Stan would want to know exactly why and how Wendy was safe, but Kyle wished she would hurry up and tell him, so he could return Stan's side.

"I went to Denver to get married," Wendy said, flushing red. Kyle glanced at the man who was smoking with Ike. He was sort of ruggedly handsome, though dressed worse than Kenny. "That's my husband, Christophe," Wendy said, lowering her voice, and Kyle noticed that many of the women on the porch were looking in her direction, shaking their heads. "He left for a better job in the city months ago – he hated mining. Oh, it's a long story, and who cares, right? Stan is safe, thank God."

"What a happy ending for everyone!" Sheila said, still clinging to Kyle's arm. "Now come inside and get warm, bubbeh."

"I've got to go to the doctor, too," Kyle said. "I had a fall, I broke some ribs." His mother gasped, her hands hovering over his chest as if she could heal him herself.

"There's likely nothing my father can do about that," Wendy said, and she quirked her mouth apologetically when Kyle gave her a look. "Oh, but, do come. He'll examine you, anyway, and I want to help with Stan's care if I can."

The Testaburgers' front parlor was crowded with the men who'd returned from the search, everyone in good spirits, some already drinking whiskey. Kenny was near the back, looking dazed, an odd little smile on his face.

"Where's Stan?" Kyle asked when he found his father among the men.

"Upstairs with the doctor," Gerald said.

"I'll see if they need help," Wendy said, and she dashed up the stairs. Gerald caught Kyle's wrist when he tried to follow.

"Don't forget yourself," he said, quietly. Kyle frowned, and it took him a moment to catch on, the kindness in his father's warning finally reaching him. Kyle and Sheila had both underestimated Gerald; he knew well why Kyle wanted to rush up the stairs now and fall at Stan's bedside. Kyle pulled his wrist from his father's grip.

"Has there been any news of Craig Tucker?" Kyle asked, still prideful enough to pretend that he hadn't understood, especially in the face of his father's sympathetic gaze.

"I'm afraid so," Gerald said. "The reverend told me they lost him early last night. Poor boy, he was so young." He hugged Kyle to him with one arm.

"What was wrong with him?" Kyle asked. Gerald sighed and looked around the room, drawing Kyle closer.

"The doctor wouldn't want to say so," Gerald said, keeping his voice low, "For the damage it would do to the community, but Craig had been mining since he was fourteen, and the dust destroyed his lungs. It will happen to most of these men if they keep at it long enough, I fear."

"No," Kyle said, and he pushed Gerald's arm away. He would never let Stan enter another cave. Somehow, he would get Stan away from here. There was no point in the miracle of his survival if he would only succumb to what had taken Craig in a few years. Kyle walked blindly toward a side table where Butters seemed to have taken up the position of hostess, and he accepted a cup of coffee.

"Kenny's actin' weird," Butters said, whispering.

"When isn't he?" Kyle said. He grabbed Butters' by the arm. "Did you hear about Craig?"

"Yeah," Butters said. "Funeral's tomorrow, but they probably won't be able to bury him until the thaw. Poor Craig! Clyde's real torn up, he didn't even come on the search. Bebe's with him, I think."

"Don't you know what killed him?" Kyle asked, not bothering to keep his voice down. Butters shrugged.

"Tuberculosis?" Butters said.

"Then why hasn't there been an outbreak?" Kyle was prepared to get up on the buffet table and shout at everyone in the room about the dangers of working in the mine, but before he could there was an anguished cry from upstairs that made his own lungs freeze up.

"Was that Stan?" Butters asked.

A woman came down the stairs – Mrs. Testaburger, who was Dr. Testaburger's nurse. She was almost as lovely as Wendy when she was dressed for town, but now she looked as if she'd been woken too early and was hardly put together, the sleeves of her dress rolled up like a man's shirt.

"He's asking for the boy who found him," she said, looking around the room with irritation. "Kyle?"

Kyle nearly tripped on the poor woman's skirts in his hurry to get around her and up the stairs. He thought of what his father said before and knew he couldn't afford to forget himself, even after the surreal events of the morning so far. This was still a place where eyes would be on them, but when he rounded the banister at the top of the stairs and saw Stan sobbing desperately in the nearest bed, held down by Randy on one side and Dr. Testaburger on the other, he ran to him with abandon.

"Kyle," Stan said, thrashing against the hands that gripped his chest and left arm, his right arm already in a sling. "Tell them, tell them they can't."

"What's happened?" Kyle asked, and he looked to Wendy, whose face was white. She was standing at the end of the bed, tying a heavy nurse's apron over her dress. "Why are you holding him like that?"

"Because he tried to run," Dr. Testaburger said. Randy was crying, too, his red face gleaming with tears and snot.

"It's wrong, though," Stan said, still crying and struggling against them as if he wanted to get to Kyle. "Tell them – Kyle's had real schooling, he'll know!"

"We have to take part of his right leg, below the knee," Dr. Testaburger said. "Frostbite, or some bad infection that looks like it. It's bizarrely advanced, and if I don't act fast he'll lose the whole leg, or die. Get over here, son, and try to get him calm. Randy, hold the left leg steady. Wendy, you know what to do with the other."

"No, please, please," Stan said, his whole body bouncing with sobs. Kyle was frozen only for a moment, then he was moving as if in a trance. He dropped onto the bed and grabbed Stan's left hand, squeezing it hard. "Please," Stan said, turning his wild gaze on Kyle. "Tell them they can't!"

"How can you be sure?" Kyle asked, speaking to the doctor, and he squeezed Stan's hand harder, trying to still his trembling.

"I don't know if you've seen gangrene before, but look for yourself," Dr. Testaburger said. He was already fussing with a brass screw tourniquet, trying to get it around Stan's leg, just under his knee. Kyle braced himself for a look at the lower half of Stan's leg as Wendy used scissors to cut away his trousers, and he quickly looked away, his stomach pitching at the sight of rotted skin. "It's like he was gone for months," Dr. Testaburger said. "He's got a gash on his ankle – it's some kind of infection that's quickened the process. Kat," he said, barking to his wife, who had reappeared and was shooing Wendy away, taking over with the infected leg. "Or, better – Wendy, get someone to help you hold up a sheet so he won't have to watch."

"Get Kenny," Kyle said. He wouldn't want anyone else seeing this. "Shh," he said, turning back to Stan, who was still blubbering, begging Kyle to help him. "They – I know, but. They have to."

"No, please," Stan said, shaking his head. "Please, they can't, Kyle, you can't let them!"

"Shh," Kyle said again, and he pushed Stan's sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. "I know," he said, when Stan sobbed, and Kyle's voice pinched up when he tried to speak again. "I know, I know."

"Kat, a dose of morphine," Dr. Testaburger said, and he finished with the tourniquet. "And something for him to bite on."

"Hey, hey," Kenny said when he appeared, and he sat beside Kyle, putting his hand over both of theirs. "Stan, no, listen. This will save your life."

Stan shook his head and pinched his eyes shut, but when Mrs. Testaburger brought the morphine, he drank it. He was shaking all over when she offered a rag for him to bite on. It reeked of whiskey.

"Don't let go," Stan said, flicking his eyes to Kyle's, and Kyle shook his head to promise he wouldn't. Stan took the rag between his teeth and closed his eyes, though by then Wendy and Kenny were holding up a sheet to hide the carnage. Worse than the sight of it, worse than Stan's panicked cries of pain and the way his eyes flew open in unseeing shock when they cut deeper, was the sound of the bone saw. It wasn't just gruesome, it was final, never to be undone. Perhaps forgetting himself, Kyle put his forehead against Stan's and cupped Stan's face, turning it toward his and whispering sweet nonsense to reassure him, though Stan was beyond comprehension at that point, his eyes never quite managing to focus on Kyle's. Before the severing was done he passed out from the pain, which Wendy, in tears herself, declared to be a good thing.

Kyle remained huddled around Stan after they'd dropped the sheet, listening dazedly as Dr. Testaburger gave his assistants instructions about which instruments he needed to close the wound. He seemed unaffected by the grisly task, remarking that the injury should 'stump well.' Kyle would have retched at that very statement if he wasn't too exhausted and heartbroken to be sick. He still had Stan's head cradled in the crook of his arm, his cheek resting on Stan's forehead. Someone had removed the rag from Stan's mouth after he lost consciousness; had Kyle done so himself? He couldn't remember. Stan's breath was steady and warm, whiskey-scented. When he woke he would be terrified by the prospect of the rest of his life. _Stuck here, Kyle, I'm so stuck_. Kyle didn't stir until Kenny touched his shoulder.

"Let him rest," Kenny said, though Stan was already 'resting' in a sense, far away. "But don't go far."

Kyle was soaked in sweat and dizzy when he stood; Wendy made him drink some cold water. She got him a chair and put it near Stan's bed while the others cleaned up, Mrs. Testaburger disappearing with an armload of blood-soaked sheets and rags.

"Where's the leg?" Kyle asked.

"Don't worry about that," Kenny said. "I'll see it gets its rites."

"What is wrong with you?" Kyle said, glaring at him. "This isn't a goddamn game."

"You'll know what it is someday," Kenny said, and left, which was fortunate, because Kyle was close to decking him for spouting mystic bullshit at a time like this. Wendy stayed, draping fresh blankets over Stan's legs after the right one had been bandaged up in thick gauze.

"That went very well," Dr. Testaburger said. "I've never seen such an accelerated infection, but there's no sign that it's spread to his other extremities. We'll keep a close watch. He'll be in shock – I suspect he already was, from the way he asked for his friend who saved him." Dr. Testaburger looked at Kyle, who realized slowly that he was the friend who'd saved Stan. He couldn't stop thinking that it had been Craig. "He might turn on you when he wakes, because you let us remove his leg," Dr. Testaburger said, and he shrugged. "But he seemed to be bonded to you from the rescue experience, beforehand – if that persists, you should tolerate it. This will be hard for him, until we find a suitable prosthesis, and even afterward."

"Of course," Kyle said, and he moved his chair closer to the bed. "Anything he needs." Wendy met his eyes when her father walked away, and she smiled a little. There was blood on her dress, and smeared under her jaw.

"I might have known you were the one who found him," she said. Her mother was still off with the laundry, and Dr. Testaburger was headed downstairs, presumably wanting coffee, or whiskey. "My father doesn't know you two were close before the rescue," she said, more quietly. "He likes to speculate about his patients' emotional responses to trauma. In this case – let him, I think."

"This is too unfair for me to stand," Kyle said. "How will he – he loved walking in the woods. It was his one freedom."

"He'll walk again," Wendy said, and she sat on the bed, on Stan's other side. "There have been all sorts of developments in prosthetics since the start of the war. Some companies have really amazing products. I say we take up a collection at church, you and I. I'm sure everyone would put in a little. Everyone loves him." She choked up then, and gave Kyle a teary smile.

"What about his work, though?" Kyle said. "Surely he'll never go into a mine again." He was almost heartened by this, but not quite, knowing that Stan would prefer to take his chances with mine dust if it meant he could keep both his legs.

"I doubt he'll even be able to get that far up the mountain on a regular basis," Wendy said. "Perhaps that idiot father of his will rise to the occasion. He's got no malady that prevents him from working, except for extreme selfishness."

When Randy came up to see Stan again, he did seem sobered in more ways than one. He wept onto Stan's chest, and called for the doctor when Stan woke, groggy and moaning in pain. He was given another dose of morphine, and quickly slipped back into a fitful sleep, his brow pinched.

"I'll want to be careful with this while he's here," Dr. Testaburger said as he put the morphine away. "And I'm loath to give him a supply for himself, after the reports I've heard about addiction among injured soldiers. A dependency of that sort is no trifling thing." He gave Randy a disapproving look as he said so, and Randy's shoulders dropped.

"He won't be able to work now," Kyle said, pointedly. He was in no mood to be subtle. Randy closed his eyes and nodded.

"He shouldn'a had to this long," Randy said. "Not without me pitching in."

"I could take care of him while you're working," Kyle said. "Until he's on his feet again. If he'll want me to," he said, thinking of what Dr. Testaburger had said, that Stan might wake up and hate Kyle for not saving his leg.

Stan finally woke late that night, after Kyle had been forced by his mother to eat some bread and chicken soup she'd brought for him. Kyle was the only one in the room. Dr. Testaburger and Wendy had fought savagely downstairs just an hour before, and Kyle hadn't been able to sleep at all on the hospital bed that neighbored Stan's, afraid Stan would wake to sudden bleeding and that the doctor would need to be called for. Kyle hurried to Stan's bed when he twitched awake, hissing in pain.

"I'll get the doctor," Kyle said, his hands hovering over Stan uncertainly.

"Wait," Stan said. His voice was thick and his eyes still puffy, pink from crying, or from the burn of the medication. "Kyle," he said, and Kyle checked the stairwell. When he saw no one coming, he fell onto the bed and wrapped himself around Stan, nuzzling at his clammy cheek.

"Oh, God," Kyle said, whispering. "I'm so sorry. But your foot, it was black. I couldn't – they said the infection was fast acting, I'm so sorry."

"Mhm," Stan mumbled, and his left hand pushed into Kyle's hair, trembling fingers digging in between his curls. "Where am I?"

"Still at Dr. Testaburger's. Shall I get him?"

"In a minute," Stan said. "I feel so. Dead, like a moldy log."

"Shh, don't say that." Kyle kissed Stan's lips softly after checking the stairwell again. "I thought you might hate me," he said when Stan's eyes finally found his, and they looked at each other fully for the first time since they'd been alone together in the mountain cave.

"Hate you?" Stan said. "Huh? Why?"

"Because – you begged. You wanted my help." Kyle wept then, his ribs aching terribly from it, and he pressed his face to Stan's neck. "Your skin is sweltering," Kyle said, and he sniffled when Stan pet him weakly. "I'm going to get the doctor, to tell him you're awake."

"Fine," Stan said, but they stayed like that for a few moments longer.

"Darling," Kyle said, lifting his face to put his lips against Stan's ear. "I love you." He felt as if he was giving up his talisman, returning it to Stan, who needed it more. Stan closed his eyes when Kyle sat back to look at him.

"I was afraid you were a dream, in that cave," Stan said. "Like my mother."

"Yes, I think I was afraid we were both dead when Craig – when I found you. Let's never doubt the other is real again. And, you know. About Craig."

"He's dead," Stan said. "You told me."

"Before I really knew."

"No, you told me. You knew."

Kyle was one of the only people in town who didn't attend Craig's memorial service the following day. He stayed with Stan, so that he'd be able to alert the doctor if Stan needed help. Randy was back at the ranch, presumably, or maybe he went to Craig's memorial; Kyle didn't know or care, and was glad to play into Dr. Testaburger's theory that Stan had grown attached to him out of some post-traumatic shock, now associating Kyle with rescue and safety. Stan was too clumsy to eat with his left hand, and though they were both embarrassed by it, Kyle was happy to spoon soup into his mouth and dab at the corners of his lips with a napkin. Stan was quiet and listless, but he accepted Kyle's affections while the others were away, pushing his face against Kyle's when Kyle kissed him.

"You are glad to be alive, aren't you?" Kyle asked, thinking of Craig, and if he would have accepted this compromise to avoid the dust that ruined his lungs. Stan nodded glumly and groped for Kyle's arm.

"Just don't go," he said, mumbling, and Kyle kissed his temple.

"Never," he said. "There is no hole you can fall into that I won't follow you through."

This actually made Stan smile, though it was small and brief, his eyes unfocused. He looked lost afterward, as if even a moment of levity was exhausting.

"Eat more," Kyle said, and Stan opened his mouth for the spoon when Kyle brought it to his lips.

When Dr. Testaburger was confident that the leg was healing over and the infection hadn't spread elsewhere, he set Stan's arm in a cast and began to talk to him about prosthetics. Wendy was often around, and she was vocal on this subject, having an interest in field medicine and recent developments in care for wounded soldiers. Stan was mostly silent and angry in the presence of anyone but Kyle, and he tended to avoid eye contact even with Randy. He kept his eyes on his lap when Randy came to tell him he'd joined up with the mining company, turning his hat in his hands.

Kyle saw his family at odd intervals throughout the following week, and Ike seemed unharrassed, even cheerful. Apparently, following this disaster, Kyle's parents had made hurried arrangements to send Ike to school back in New York, where he would stay with Sheila's sister and her family. Kyle was glad for him, and sadder than he would have expected at the prospect of losing his brother. He was sure, especially with the country torn apart by war, that they wouldn't see each other for years, if ever again.

"You won't go with him?" Kyle said to his mother after he had the news. They were downstairs, in the Testaburgers' front parlor, having tea. Gerald was at work, and Ike was upstairs with Stan, probably asking insensitive questions.

"We'll stay here," Sheila said. "Your father likes his position here, and I can't live without him. I might not be young, but I do know what that feels like."

Kyle wouldn't meet her eyes, though she was mostly being kind. He was at the window, staring out at the road as a group of men cleared it for the second time in two days. He felt tired and exhilarated all the time, demolished but also unbreakable.

"Thank you," Kyle said when he turned to his mother. "For staying, I mean. Well, for everything. For bringing me here."

They embraced, and Kyle wanted to say more, to ask if she was aware that Gerald knew exactly what was going on between Kyle and Stan, and if she would support him in his effort to never leave Stan's side now that he had a somewhat legitimate excuse not to. But he was in a hurry to get back to Stan and rescue him from Ike, so he said nothing more that day.

Stan moved back to the ranch after two weeks' in Dr. Testaburger's care. He got a ride in a carriage with Wendy and Christophe, who were heading back to Denver, where they would stay briefly while Christophe collected some gambling debts he was owed. They wanted to go to Mexico eventually, or perhaps France, and Wendy was also considering joining the Red Cross. It was all very exciting, according to her. Christophe drove the carriage and didn't say much.

"When did you two – begin this?" Stan asked at one point. They were riding in back, under the covered wagon they'd hitched to the carriage, Stan leaning against Kyle and cushioned by a large pile of Wendy's clothes.

"Me and Christophe?" Wendy said. "Oh, just shortly after he moved to town. We've got so much in common." She said something to Christophe like, Isn't that right, dear? Kyle's French was rather rusty. Christophe answered in French, and this Kyle could translate easily: he said the sex was good, also. Wendy laughed, and she wasn't blushing when she turned back to them, though she smirked at Kyle as if she'd expected him to understand that. "I smoke, too," Wendy said, to Stan. "Are you shocked?"

"Nope," he said, and she reached over to touch his hand, fondly and in a way that annoyed Kyle, though he appreciated that she seemed to love Stan almost as much as he did, and differently. Together they had raised enough from collections at church to order a top of the line prosthetic for Stan. It would arrive in a week, unless the war or the weather interfered.

"I'll miss you," Wendy said. "Wherever we settle, we'll send you a postcard. And I'll be back from time to time to see my wretched parents, I suppose."

"Are they still upset with you?" Kyle asked. "Because of your – choice in partners?" He glanced at Christophe, who didn't seem to be listening. Kyle realized that he'd never asked or even considered whether or not Christophe spoke any English.

"They're upset, yes," Wendy said. "But they always knew I was headstrong, and they'd rather snarl at me than never hear from me again. Anyway, they'll grow to love him as I do," she said, and she looked at Christophe adoringly, though he was hunched and miserable-looking at the moment, a stubby cigarette dangling from his bottom lip.

Randy received them at the house, and Stan was determined to stand on his crutches when he hugged Wendy goodbye, though the cast on his arm made it nearly impossible. Kyle and Randy hovered nearby, braced to catch him, but he didn't fall. He had much more trouble trying to get to the house after Wendy and Christophe had driven away; the property was on an uphill slope, to protect the house from flooding. After cursing and struggling with the snow, not even managing a single step, Stan let Randy carry him.

Humiliated by that, or perhaps just jarred by being back at his house with nothing back to normal, Stan banished everyone but Sparky from his room and slept until dinner. Kyle made himself busy cleaning the kitchen, which was filthy. He wasn't sure how to break it to Randy that he was never going to leave, but the snow and the hardness of the road during this season was a good enough excuse for the meantime. The Marshes owned only one horse, an old mare named Raisin, and Randy would want her to get to work in the morning. Stan had always preferred to walk, but he was a much younger man, or had been, before the injury.

"I'm off the drink, but there's some for you if you want it," Randy said. He was hanging about the kitchen, sort of helping Kyle clean but mostly getting in the way.

"Yes, please," Kyle said, because he'd never needed a whiskey so badly. "I hope you've got plenty, in case of a snow-in. Stan will need it for the pain. The doctor wouldn't send any morphine home with him."

"Oh, yeah," Randy said. "I got a real stockpile."

When Kyle went to wake Stan an hour later, whiskey was indeed the first thing he asked for. Kyle could hardly bear the way Stan's face contorted when the pain got bad, but he knew this was his life now: bearing whatever Stan needed him to. He wasn't sorry about this, and actually felt very lucky, except that he couldn't trade his fate for Stan's and be the one who was confined to a bed. It was a nightmare, but Kyle was a natural shut-in and might have borne it better, with enough good books and Stan to look after him. Stan was already rebelling against his prescribed bed rest, insisting that he could get up and go to the table for dinner rather than letting Kyle bring him a plate in bed. He couldn't, especially after two glasses of whiskey on an empty stomach. Kyle promised him that he'd master the crutches when his arm healed, and reminded him that the prosthetic was on its way. Stan had no response, but he ate most of what Kyle brought him, staring at the fire while he chewed.

"It's too bad that Frenchman got away with his girl," Randy said when he was watching Kyle clean the dinner dishes. "Though I guess it was bound to happen anyway. Still, breaks me up, 'cause no girl will want him now."

Kyle opened his mouth to protest this, furious at the suggestion that all Stan had to offer was outweighed by a disfigurement that had left his beautiful face and perfect hands intact, but he heard it as the blessing it was and nodded solemnly.

"It's true," he said. "But I'll do my best to keep him from feeling alone in the world, as his friend."

"You remind me of my daughter," Randy said, patting Kyle's shoulder. "Not to compare you to a woman," he said when Kyle gave him a questioning look. "But she's real hardy when faced with adversity, like what they call pilgrim stock. Stan's, he's. I ain't saying he's weak, but he lets things get to him, all the way in."

"I'm no pilgrim," Kyle said, muttering, and Randy left him alone after that, retiring to his bedroom at the end of the hall.

There was a small, drafty room for Kyle, but he set up a cot in Stan's room, at the request of Dr. Testaburger, who had trained him in what to do if Stan had any sudden bleeding. He'd also cautioned Kyle to keep the room warm, reviving the fire at least once during the night, and to closely monitor Stan's whiskey intake. Nobody involved had trusted Randy to take on these responsibilities, and Randy had seemed relieved if anything.

"Hey," Kyle said when he slipped into Stan's room, all the lamps but the one he carried blown out for the night. Stan was lying on his back and staring at the ceiling, Sparky huddled up at his side. The dog got up and came to Kyle while he worked on the fire, nosing at him as if to make sure that he knew Stan was not well. Kyle pet him and pointed to the rug by the fire, where Sparky took up his usual spot with a heavy sigh.

"He needs a bath," Stan said. "Smells like death."

"I hadn't noticed," Kyle said, though he had. He went to the water basin on Stan's bureau and washed his hands. "I'll clean him up tomorrow. The doctor gave me a couple of good soaps. Though I guess I shouldn't use them on the dog. What do you usually use?"

"Laundry soap," Stan said. "But only a little. Too much irritates his skin."

"Alright," Kyle said. "Well, you'll have to show me."

"Will I. Yeah, that'll be a trick. I guess you could bathe him in sight of my tomb here."

He sounded drunk, and Kyle knew he couldn't possibly chide Stan for being so grim. He found a clean wash rag and wet it before going to the bed, his sleeves still rolled up. Stan kept his eyes on the ceiling until Kyle touched the rag to his forehead, cleaning away the sweat. He was always sweaty now, though they'd entered the coldest part of the winter. Dr. Testaburger said it was normal, a sign that he was healing. There was a thermometer in the care package that he'd sent home with Stan, and Kyle was supposed to check his temperature in the mornings and if it seemed he was burning up. At the moment Stan didn't seem much warmer than he usually did after drinking. Kyle thought of the way Stan would sweat during and after sex, just a fine sheen showing on his lip if they were outside in the cold, and how it smelled slightly different than his usual laboring sweat, sweeter.

"You need a shave," Kyle said after he'd cleaned Stan's face, leaving the wash rag on his forehead. He ran his thumb over the stubble on Stan's cheek. At the doctor's office, Wendy had shaved him.

"I wanted to ride away with them," Stan said. His voice was strained, as if someone had their hands around his throat. "Me and you, and just go anywhere, go along with any of their stupid plans. I'll never leave this town."

"Their plans were stupid indeed," Kyle said. "And – if you were well you might not envy them. But we'll get away from here somehow, if that's what you want. Just wait for your prosthetic to arrive. Or for the war to end. How's that? We'll leave when the war is over."

"Kyle," Stan said.

"Hmm?"

"Take your clothes off. Get in with me, naked."

"Ah—" Kyle looked at the door.

"He won't come in," Stan said. "Alright, not naked, it's too cold. Take your shoes off, though, at least." Stan's eyes filled with tears, and Kyle leaned down to kiss him, but Stan shook his head and pressed his lips together, his eyes pinching shut. "No, no," he said. "Nothing's the same, not even you."

"Damn you, shut your mouth," Kyle said, and Stan opened his eyes. "Don't tell me I changed, 'cause I haven't."

"You sound like a hick," Stan said, and he smiled a little, shakily.

"Well. Maybe I have changed, then, but not where you're concerned. Here, c'mon—" He tried to kiss Stan again, and this time it worked, Stan's trembling lips opening for his tongue. They sighed into each other, and Kyle felt as if he'd been holding that breath since the night in the meadow when he'd waited in vain for Stan to come.

There was nothing resembling sex that night, though Kyle did get completely naked, and Stan's uncertain left hand roamed over him under the blankets until he dropped to sleep, his face turned against Kyle's chest. In the morning Kyle was freezing, and hard from the smell of Stan. He had to bring his hand to his mouth to keep himself from exclaiming in stupid joy when he saw that the blankets were tented over Stan's lap. What followed was tender and nervous; they kissed a lot and only made the softest noises. Kyle had to finish himself off, because Stan's left hand was both unpracticed and working him from an awkward angle. Stan grabbed Kyle's wrist and brought his hand up to his mouth, licking some seed from his palm, and when Kyle moaned against his ear, Stan came under the blankets, spilling over Kyle's clenching fingers.

It was dangerous business; once the fog of sex had lifted they heard Randy moving about in the kitchen, and Kyle leapt out of the bed, cursing the cold as he yanked on yesterday's dirty clothes. He still hadn't brought his things from his house, and planned to gently ask his parents to do so after a week or so of nursing Stan without any explicit discussion of such.

That first day was odd, after Randy had left for the mine, but for the most part Kyle felt cozy and settled. He cooked breakfast for Stan – French toast, something he'd been craving since meeting Christophe – and it wasn't as good with sourdough bread instead of the challah his mother had used when she made this in New York, but Stan seemed to approve and ate two plates with lots of syrup. After breakfast, Kyle gave Stan a sponge bath, and he sucked Stan off with loving attention when he got hard from the caress of the sponge. Around noon they settled in to read together – Stan's book on the occult had finally arrived – but they were both quickly asleep, and when the wind blasted the windows Kyle tucked his arm more tightly around Stan, thinking that this wasn't bad at all, though he knew he shouldn't expect any sort of peace to last.

"You're here," Stan said after Kyle returned from stoking the fire, resuming his place under the blankets. "You're in my bed."

"Feeling alright?" Kyle asked, not wanting to think about what it had cost them, this ability to be together in Stan's bed at last.

"It hurts," Stan said. "Every time I move, it hurts."

Kyle pulled Stan down against his chest and stroked his hair. He knew he was talking about the leg and not the arm, which couldn't really move within the cast, and that what wasn't there hurt most.

"Makes me think," Stan said, mumbling this against Kyle's shirt, "That every time I took a step in that prosthetic it'd hurt like hell."

"Wait and see," Kyle said, and they lay there in restless quiet until Kyle went to the kitchen to fetch Stan an early whiskey.

Randy returned from work later than they'd expected and after a hard journey on the frozen road, filthy and humbled. He helped himself to a whiskey, but didn't overdo it under Kyle's watchful eye. He was exhausted from his first day of real work in years and turned in early. Before the week was done he'd rented a room in town so that he wouldn't have to make the trek to the ranch every day. Kyle was overjoyed by this, but a sense of unease quickly followed. Now he was truly alone with Stan in this little house, as he'd dreamed about once, but he was also Stan's sole caretaker, and the hard winter was just beginning. Already the prosthetic was late to arrive by mail.

The worst part of every day was cleaning and redressing the wound; Kyle refused to think of it as a stump, though that was what Dr. Testaburger had called it when he gave Kyle instructions. As far as Kyle was concerned, a stump was something lesser, without a knee that still functioned fine when Kyle helped Stan through his daily exercises. Stan wanted to clean the wound and reapply the gauze himself, but he couldn't with only his left hand, and he was always in a foul mood after Kyle was done. Kyle tried not to show that he was holding back his revulsion at the sight of the tied-off skin, and he attempted to seem casual about the task. He gave Stan time alone to recover his pride whenever he was through, and usually helped himself to a strong drink. Every time he did this he had to remind himself how lucky they were, because everything seemed to be healing on schedule.

Dr. Testaburger came for a house call at the start of December, and he removed the cast, revealing a stinking but fully healed arm. This was an enormous relief to all parties, and Stan was able to wash the arm himself while Dr. Testaburger examined his leg, which also received a passing grade. The doctor had brought the prosthetic with him from town; it had finally arrived at the post office three days before. Stan eyed it warily. It came with a pair of stiff leather boots that were specifically designed to be worn over it, lacing up to the knee. The prosthetic itself was wooden, with leather fastenings that were screwed in place with brass.

"I feel like an automaton," Stan said while the doctor helped him put the thing on, kneeling at his feet while Stan sat on the bed.

"That's a cheerful way to think of it," Dr. Testaburger said, with seeming sincerity, and Kyle had to hold in a laugh when Stan gave him a look of disbelief.

"This is one of the most lightweight models available," Dr. Testaburger, sounding proud, as if he'd invented the thing himself. "And the foot hinge is for added comfort." He slid the boot on over it and began to lace it up. "How does it feel?" he asked.

"I don't know," Stan said. "Like a piece of wood."

He tried standing on it, still using the crutches for balance. His face was red, and Kyle knew that his was, too; he felt hot all over, and wanted to rush to Stan to help him, but the doctor was doing that already. Stan winced with every step, as if the top of the prosthetic was pressing into raw flesh, which, Kyle supposed, it was.

"It will take some getting used to," Dr. Testaburger said. "Try to leave it on during the day, even if it itches at little at first. Take it off at night, of course."

Kyle made coffee and put it in a thermos for the doctor's journey back to town. He walked him down to the fence post where he'd tied his horse, and realized as he did so that he hadn't been outside in days, except to empty bed pans, feed the few animals on the property and collect snow to melt for cooking and drinking. He hadn't done any walking, or stopped to notice the way the pines scented the air more sharply now that they were heavy with snow.

"How is his mood, generally?" Dr. Testaburger asked.

"Considering what he's been through, I think it's good," Kyle said. "I try to keep him entertained with books – none of the ones we ordered have arrived yet?"

"The only package they had for you was the leg," Dr. Testaburger said. "I should have thought to bring books – I'll send some of Wendy's with your mother when she visits next."

By the time Kyle returned to the bedroom, Stan had removed the prosthetic leg and was sitting with the blankets on the bed pulled up to his waist, his arms crossed over his chest. Something about the way he'd let the leg topple over on the floor, still inside the boot, made Kyle sad. He uprighted it, lining it up with the other boot, in arm's reach of the bed.

"That thing hurts like a bitch," Stan said.

"I'm sorry," Kyle said. "We – could ask your father for money, for another one—"

"Shit, why bother? That's the best there is, supposedly." Stan stared at the fire while Kyle made himself busy with straightening things in the room needlessly. "I'm not giving up," Stan said, mumbling.

"Of course not," Kyle said. He wanted to go to Stan, but he'd learned not to hold him and pet him when they had conversations like this, because it made him feel condescended to. "It's – you've got all winter to practice. How's that? We can make it a kind of goal, if you want. That you could be more comfortable with it by the thaw. And if you're not, well. Then we could try something else."

"Come here," Stan said. "And shut the door," he said when Kyle took a step toward the bed. "To keep the dog out."

Kyle knew enough about the look in Stan's eyes to undress himself on the way to the bed. He snatched up the petroleum jelly, too. Stan took it from him, popped the top off and flicked it away, the sound of it rolling across the floorboards making Kyle's cock stiffen. Kyle hurried out of his underwear before straddling Stan's lap. They were both breathing a little harder already, eyes locked.

"You're cold," Stan said, and he put his hand on the small of Kyle's back to draw him closer, then took one hard nipple in his mouth and warmed it, sucking. Kyle moaned and put his hands in Stan's hair. He'd been unsure of what to expect as he approached the bed, afraid that all that had happened might have made Stan rougher with him. Kyle wouldn't mind rougher things, but he still wanted this, too, the way Stan ran his fingers softly across his back before slipping them down between Kyle's ass cheeks.

Kyle hoped Stan felt whole when they fucked; Kyle did, always, in a way that he never had before they met. Stan rolled him over and had him on his back, something they'd hadn't been able to do in months, and he held Kyle off the mattress by his shoulders, reminding him how strong he was, still. Kyle didn't bother to keep quiet as he had in the woods. He shouted in answer to Stan's every thrust, pressing his hips up to try to get more of Stan into him. Stan's teeth closed into his neck, deep enough to mark him; and why shouldn't he be marked? They were together, at last. Kyle sobbed when he came, then couldn't stop.

"Shh, oh, hey," Stan said after he'd come, sliding out already. "Shit, did I hurt you? Oh, Kyle, hey." Stan was kissing him all over his face, trying to dry Kyle's cheeks with his thumbs.

"I'm sorry," Kyle said, still shaking with sobs. "I don't know why I'm crying, I – think I'm happy, and I'm evil for being happy now, aren't I? I'm just wretched, wicked—"

"No, baby, shh," Stan said, and Kyle hiccuped, laughing, because Stan had never called him 'baby' before, and it sounded ridiculous. "I'm always happy when I'm with you," Stan said. "Like this, I mean, when we're together like this. It's okay to be happy, Jesus. I'm happy, too." He kissed Kyle as if he wanted him to taste it on his tongue, and Kyle opened wide for him, going limp.

Though it took almost an hour to boil enough water for a hot bath, Kyle did so that they could take one together, and he dumped a sachet of lavender that Wendy had given him into the water. She'd said it was calming, and Kyle did feel calm as he straddled Stan's lap in the tub, giving him an overdue shave. He had red marks all over his neck from Stan's stubble.

"Let me do you," Stan said, though Kyle only had some fuzz on his lip and near his ears. Kyle submitted to being shaved, nervous about the accuracy of Stan's recently broken right arm, but he was careful and did fine. They stayed in the bath until the water cooled, kissing and rubbing against each other, and Stan refused clothes when Kyle helped him out. He used the crutches to get back to the room, naked and still hard.

"It's easy with two hands!" he said, turning back to say so to Kyle, who wasn't sure if he was charmed or unnerved by this display.

They were surprised by a visit from Kyle's family a few days later, and when Kyle heard his mother's voice out in the yard he dashed around the room getting dressed, tossing clothes to Stan so he could do the same. By the time Kyle was presentable the Broflovskis were knocking on the door, and Stan was doing the fastenings on his prosthetic.

"You're going to wear that?" Kyle said, surprised. Stan hadn't touched it since the visit from Dr. Testaburger.

"Well, yeah," Stan said, looking up from it. "For company. To make them more comfortable, you know? Um, can you help me with it after you let them in?"

"They can wait," Kyle said, dropping down to Stan's feet. He was lacing the boot up over the prosthetic when his mother walked in the door out in the kitchen, shouting his name. "Coming!" Kyle said.

"I can do the rest," Stan said, and he kissed the top of Kyle's head. "Go on, don't be rude."

Kyle was so happy to see his family that he was almost tearful, though he hadn't missed living with them, and certainly hadn't missed living in that house. They'd brought armloads of presents, basic sundries, and boxes of clothes for him, having borrowed the Stotches' carriage. Kyle helped his father and Ike unload everything and bring it to the house, and when they returned from the last trip Stan had emerged, wearing the prosthetic but still using the crutches, answering Sheila's endless questions.

"Mother!" Kyle said, and he pulled a chair from the table. "Let him sit before you begin the interview."

As soon as Kyle took her coat, Sheila began making dumplings; she'd brought chicken broth in a pot from home. Kyle was assigned the task of chopping vegetables and potatoes. There were even two bottles of wine, presumably from the small collection they'd brought from New York. Stan sat at the table with Gerald and Ike, drinking wine out of a tumbler. Kyle couldn't stop admiring him from the corner of his eye, only half paying attention to his mother's chatter. He thought Stan had never looked more handsome, pink-cheeked from the wine and sitting with one elbow on the table, grinning at Ike's comments about some public humiliation Butters had recently suffered. Sparky came in to lay down with his chin on Stan's boot, favoring the one that housed a real foot as opposed to a wooden one.

"All this land and they don't keep anything but a cow and four chickens?" Sheila said when Kyle gave her the report on how they were eating – there was always milk and eggs, at least. He'd cried pathetic tears of frustration the first few times he tried to get milk from the cow, but he was getting better. He'd tried hunting a few times, but he was hopeless at it even with Sparky there to sniff out prey.

"I want to get some pigs in the spring, if we can," Kyle said, and he could feel his mother's attention sharpen. He looked up at her and shrugged. "As far as everyone in town knows, I'm just a saint-like friend," Kyle said, lowering his voice. "Who else would care for him? They're all just glad they don't have to do it." Among the items of gossip they'd already discussed was the fact that Randy was spending time with a pretty war widow who had recently moved down from Denver.

"Careful," Sheila said, shaking her head, and she looked back to her dumplings.

The dinner was good, one of Kyle's favorites from childhood, and he knew that was why his mother had picked it. She touched Kyle's hair at random intervals throughout the meal, and when she told them Ike would begin his journey back to New York in the spring, her voice wavered.

"There's not much for a boy of Ike's age here," Gerald said. "Not even a small school for social interaction, but I hope that will change – Kyle, I was offering your services as a reading teacher to a woman with a young son the other day. In the spring, would you be interested in that kind of work?"

"If I have time," Kyle said. He didn't like children, generally.

"We were thinking about helping my dad set up a real farm here," Stan said. "So we could sell in town."

"Well, that's noble, I suppose," Gerald said, and Kyle could hear in his tone that he was disturbed by the thought of his son as a farmer. Kyle wasn't thrilled about it himself, especially if it meant butchering animals. "But you should use your unique gifts to serve the community, Kyle. You could tutor the youngsters in Latin, give them a chance at leaving for school after the war ends."

"How would they pay him?" Ike asked. "In sticky buns and cookies?"

"That'd be alright," Kyle said, and Sheila laughed.

"I made you a rugelach," she said, pointing to a box on the counter.

They stayed late, and Kyle offered his parents Randy's bed, not expecting them to accept. When they did, he put fresh sheets on, then went in to do the same for Ike, in the unused room that was supposed to be Kyle's.

"I could move the bed into the kitchen so you could sleep near the stove," Kyle said.

"I'm alright," Ike said. He was leaning near the door, studying Kyle while he worked. "You're like a wife," he said, and Kyle turned to glare at him, but Ike didn't seem to be taunting him, just observing this mildly. He shrugged. "It's impressive, actually," Ike said. "You always get what you want."

"You'll have enough of what you want, back in New York," Kyle said, and he fluffed the pillow angrily when he thought of Ike eating fried donuts at the Polish deli. "Have you been able to sleep, at the house?" Kyle asked.

"Yeah," Ike said. "Ever since you left, nothing."

"Not even dreams? Sleepwalking?"

"I don't think so," Ike said. "Did anything follow you here?"

"No," Kyle said. "Stan – it's never been a problem, with Stan around."

"Of course not," Ike said, and Kyle slung the pillow at him.

Kyle went in to Stan's bedroom, wondering if he should sleep on the cot just in case and knowing he wouldn't be able to stay there for long. Stan was sitting in his undershirt and trousers on a stool near the fire, unlacing his left boot.

"Didn't expect they'd stay," Stan said when Kyle had shut the door behind him.

"It's alright, isn't it?" Kyle asked. Stan looked up from his boot and laughed.

"Yeah, of course," he said. "You know. I think of it as your place, too. Now."

"I asked my brother about the disturbances," Kyle said, not sure how to respond to that, because he felt the same way and he knew it was foolish. "He said there hasn't been anything."

"Kenny said there wouldn't be," Stan said.

"What now?" Kyle went to Stan and knelt down in front of him, starting on his other boot.

"He was babbling something at me while I was still in the bed at Dr. Testaburger's," Stan said. "Something about how he'd sealed up a magical cave? Portal to the spirit world, something like that? I was high on that medicine, thought I was having a fever dream. You know Kenny, though, he's kind of a lunatic."

"That cave," Kyle said, his fingers pausing on Stan's laces. "Every time I remember what happened I catch myself thinking Craig was there with me. But you didn't see him."

"Doesn't mean he wasn't there," Stan said, and he cupped Kyle's cheek. Kyle looked up at him and shivered a little, pressing into his touch. "My mother was there," Stan said. "I know she was, and you said Craig left to find the others after you saw him? I think he went and got Sparky. They were friends, after all."

"Then I hate the thought of something like that being closed up," Kyle said. He took Stan's hand and kissed his palm. "If it saved you."

"I think Kenny'd let us back in if we wanted," Stan said, and he winked.

"Wait," Kyle said when Stan reached for his laces again. "Leave them on for a moment. And take your shirt off."

"Right under your parents' noses?" Stan said, but he was grinning, and he pulled his shirt off.

"Well, they're in my house, aren't they?" Kyle said, and Stan nodded, his fingers sliding into Kyle's hair as Kyle worked the buttons on his trousers open. Kyle wanted Stan to have good associations with the prosthetic and these boots, though he supposed the whole evening would be a good memory already; they'd both enjoyed themselves, and it had been nice to have other voices in the house. Kyle was thinking of inviting their friends for a regular evening of card playing, perhaps twice monthly. His thoughts about this evaporated when he worked Stan's hard cock out through his fly and licked it up and down, Stan's fingers tightening in his hair. Sucking him off while he wore the tall boots wasn't entirely selfless. Kyle liked the look of them a great deal, especially when Stan wore them with open trousers and nothing else.

They both slept well that night, curled up together under the blankets, and Kyle didn't worry that his parents knew the cot in Stan's bedroom was only for show. Had he actually gotten what he wanted, for a grisly price that Stan paid for him? The thought terrified him when he woke in the morning, dawn peeking in around the heavy curtain that hung over the window. He pulled Stan's arm around him more firmly, scooting down until the blankets covered his nose.

His mother allowed him to make the breakfast, and when Kyle's family left she hugged Kyle goodbye, then Stan, patting his back.

"You're a brave boy," she said, sounding like she would cry. "Take care of each other," she said, and Kyle knew she'd woken up with the same fear he had, early in the morning, that the appearance of a happy ending could be cruelly deceptive.

After he did his chores with the animals, Kyle took a bath and found Stan in bed, reading the occult book. Kyle put on a clean sweater and climbed into bed with Stan. He hadn't bothered with underwear, and he hummed with contentment when Stan's hand slid down to squeeze his bottom.

"If you'd lost a hand I would have mourned it forever," Kyle said, not sure that he should speak about what might have been. "Your hands are so perfect."

"Look here," Stan said, and he showed Kyle the page he'd been reading. The book was called Encyclopedia Arcana, and so far they'd both found it rather disappointing and tame. Stan was looking at the entry labeled Woodland Spirits. "'Many tribes of the western mountains believe that every tree has a soul.' I believe that," Stan said, and he looked up at Kyle with such grave sincerity that Kyle had to hold in a laugh.

"I don't know," Kyle said. "It would be so sad, wouldn't? To stay in one place for hundreds of years."

"I doubt it bothers them," Stan said. "That's how I want to be." He looked back to the book. "More like an old tree."

"I think the best woodland spirit my soul could hope to resemble would be some nuisance like a squirrel," Kyle said, and Stan smiled at him, pressing his face to Kyle's cheek.

"That's perfect," Stan said. "You could climb me."

"Oh, yes, and eat your nuts?"

"I'm serious, though," Stan said. He sat up and put the book on the table by the bed. "I know it's greedy, but I want to have so many lives with you."

"I know," Kyle said, and he drew Stan down to him. "Let's just hope we can have this one, for now."

Things between them were easy that winter, despite everything. They had the books that Dr. Testaburger had loaned them from Wendy's collection, and Kyle was trying to learn how to cook. Stan still found the prosthetic uncomfortable, but he grew attached to it anyway, and Kyle suspected it made him feel more normal, even if normal hurt. Some nights he slept with it still on, boot and all, and Kyle didn't mind. He liked the way the leather felt against his bare skin when their legs tangled together.

Their friends came to visit when the road was clear enough, Kyle making trips into town to arrange these social gatherings. They gossiped over cards and drank too much, and Kyle almost always had to make beds on the floor in the kitchen for those who were too drunk to get home safely. By the following summer most of them had left town. Bebe was given a heavy chunk of gold from some anonymous donor who slipped it under her pillow at the Dark Horse, and she left for California after she'd sold it. Everyone suspected Clyde, but Kyle was sure that Kenny had found the gold in that cave and given it to her. Clyde was depressed without her, and he joined the Union army. Cartman went to live with his mother in Denver for the season, but he was back before the next winter, complaining of his mother's gentleman admirers. Wendy and Christophe returned to settle in the valley just before the end of the war, to everyone's surprise. They brought two daughters with them, and when Wendy begged Kyle to help her open a school for them and the other children in town, he did.

The mine had closed after a bad cave in during non-working hours, but new industry kept people in town, mostly forestry and meat-packing. A brewery opened in 1867, and Randy remarried after he got a decent job there. His wife was ten years younger, named Penny, and Kyle found her agreeable enough. They had a house in town, and Randy signed the deed to the ranch over to Stan, making it official, though by then Stan and Kyle had lived and worked there for almost five years.

It helped that Cartman made jokes about them, because no one took him seriously. People generally believed, probably thanks to Randy, that Stan had loved Wendy and lost her to the Frenchman, never to recover from this early heartbreak. There were rumors that Wendy had moved back to town to try to start an affair with Stan, having come to regret her choice in husband, but that Stan was too good a man to give in to the temptation. He was something of a local hero, due to the combination of his handicap and his persisting friendliness, and people praised Kyle for having saved him, first in the cave and then after the partial loss of his leg. The rumors about Stan included some about how he'd become either a heavy drinker or a morphine addict after his accident, and Kyle allowed people to consider this another reason that women didn't find him suitable for marrying. Generally it was believed that the foremost reason women weren't willing to get involved with him was his undying love for Wendy, a community fable that Wendy and Stan both encouraged in subtle ways when they could. Kyle actually felt jealous sometimes, though he was very glad for the folklore surrounding those two, because it kept Stan and Kyle safe. About Kyle's romantic life there was little speculation, but he continued to make easy friendships with the prostitutes who worked in town, so most thought he satisfied his needs with them.

Formally, Stan and Kyle were business partners who had revived the neglected ranch, and they were known in town for their bacon and goat's milk cheese. Their business on the ranch remained small, though they'd hired Kenny as soon as they could afford to, and they outsourced their sheep's wool to Millie Stotch, who made it into yarn and other goods. Their jobs at the school brought them virtually no income until Colorado joined the union in the mid-seventies. They had some federal funding then, due to Wendy's efforts. Stan, having surpassed Kyle on the piano after the Broflovskis made a gift of it to him, taught music and history. Kyle taught literature and Latin, and Wendy handled arithmetic and most of the administration. There was a brief period during which Christophe taught French, but he had no sense of how to manage a group of children who were not his own. With Wendy he had five, all daughters except for the youngest, and he was a devoted father who Kyle grew to admire a great deal. They were both fond of talking about politics while drinking. Christophe was actually a very adept English speaker, though he had few words for most people.

Somehow, Kyle found himself nearing forty, still waiting for his luck to run out, but a little less afraid, with every passing year, that it would happen soon. His parents had moved back to New York after his father retired, and Kyle missed them, but he was glad for the excuse to bring Stan to the city to visit them as a fortieth birthday present. Ike was touring while they were there; he had a magic show and was fairly famous on the east coast, according to Kyle's mother. It was 1885, and New York had changed significantly since Kyle had last seen it, so he was a tourist alongside Stan, and in many ways their two weeks there were the happiest of his life, because he'd finally shown Stan that he could escape the shadow of the mountain when he wanted to. Stan had been through four prosthetics by then, and was currently using one made of firm rubber that he liked a great deal more than the wooden ones he'd tried. Every man in New York was wearing a bowler that year, and Kyle bought Stan a nice one at Macy's. He looked so handsome in it that Kyle took him back the next day and bought him a whole suit, though it was expensive and he'd have no need of one in Colorado. He did eventually wear it there, to a number of weddings. Anyone else would have been taunted for his fanciness, but Stan's limp afforded him many kindnesses.

"I feel like I've seen the whole country now," Stan said at one point on the long train journey home, slumped against Kyle in their compartment.

"From a train window, yes," Kyle said, and he checked the window on the door before daring to kiss Stan's forehead. They hadn't had any real privacy during their two weeks in New York, and Kyle was looking forward to returning their wood-frame bed on the ranch, tired of the rest of the world. "We should see California, though, sometime," he said. They still got postcards and letters from Bebe, who had never married. Kyle hoped she'd found some woman.

"Yes, California," Stan said, mumbling, and then he was asleep.

They never made it to California, though they could have afforded the train tickets at several flush periods in the ranch's history. Kyle liked to go to Denver to shop, and it was an easy trip once South Park got its own train station. The town grew, and the new owners of the building that had once been The Golden Nugget transformed the place into a hotel for tourists who came to hike and ski on Pike's Peak. Kyle's time was divided between the school and the ranch until he turned fifty and decided to retire as a teacher, leaving the Latin to Wendy and the literature to Stan, who had always enjoyed the company of his students more than Kyle did. Distantly, Kyle wondered what had become of the teacher who had corrupted him. Surely he had died in prison, but there was no way to find out that Kyle actually wanted to undertake. He felt almost nostalgic for those horrible years, because they were the precursor to his life with Stan, a wound that Stan would bandage so tenderly that Kyle was almost glad to have suffered it. After all, without that nightmare, he would have remained in New York, forever ignorant of his true happiness.

The thought frightened him, more so than his fear that the townsfolk would cease to tolerate his cohabitation with Stan once had. There were so many little twists in the past that might not have led him to where he'd come. Kyle might not have been naïve enough to accept Rodney's private tutoring sessions; Stan might not have fallen and lost his foot. Sometimes he was afraid that the latter was some terrible bargain that Stan made with a demon when he was alone in that cave, but a cruel spirit would have taken more than his foot in exchange for his life with Kyle. As if these things could be reversed, Kyle would wake up terrified by the flimsiness of what had amounted to his relatively long and happy life, and he would find Stan under the blankets and cling, his heart pounding while Stan slept on peacefully.

They never walked as far as the meadow anymore, but they strolled about together on outskirts of the ranch sometimes, near enough to the house that Stan wouldn't have trouble getting back if his leg began to bother him. The prosthetics were never exactly comfortable, and as he'd gotten older he'd gone back to simply using his crutches inside the house, as long as he was only in the company of Kyle, who hardly blinked at what he now thought of, without angst, as the stump. There had even been a period in his late twenties when he'd rather fetishized that part of Stan's body, having conquered his fear of it. Stan had been fond of spanking Kyle and tying his wrists up around the same time; Kyle had rather liked that, too.

Most of their more leisurely walks took place in late spring or early fall, when the trees were nicest. There was a dense forest near their property, and though the town had grown more crowded and the mountain had been overrun with tourists and even a lodge, this particular forest was usually empty, far enough from town to remain quiet and untraveled. Stan favored several fallen trees for sitting against and picnicking, and Kyle would rest his head on Stan's shoulder while Stan told him the names of the birds they could hear calling.

"Any news of your brother?" Stan asked Kyle one afternoon in fall, just a few months after Kyle's retirement from teaching. Kyle had lately been keeping to the ranch for weeks at a time, and it suited him, this existence with only Stan for company.

"Ike's gone to Egypt," Kyle said. "I didn't tell you?"

"No! Egypt? My god! What for?"

"Oh, it's for publicity, for his act. To research the mysticism of the pharaohs or something like that. He's brought that new wife of his, I suppose. My mother hates her."

"Do you think Ike believes in magic anymore?" Stan asked.

"No, well. Doubtful. It's just a gimmick to him, I suspect, a way to make money. But how would I know, we never speak. I've never even seen his act!"

"Mhm," Stan said. His sister had recently died, leaving behind four children. Her husband being dead also, Stan had wanted to adopt all of them, but they were adults, and they had not answered any of his letters.

They were sitting in Stan's favorite spot, against what had once been a giant tree, now a fallen trunk that grew impressive mushrooms. They could see the house from where they were, but distantly, and the way that the light streamed down through the treetops at this time of day was beautiful, especially now, in autumn, with all the colors enriched. Kyle reached over and took Stan's hand, because he seemed to be deep in thought, and Kyle increasingly didn't like being apart from him, not even when Stan's thoughts took him elsewhere. Stan looked over at him and smiled.

"I was just thinking of how scared your brother was in that old house," Stan said. "Before he left. Before – well, everything, really."

"Everything," Kyle said, thoughtfully. "No, things had happened before that. You'd taken my – virginity, I guess. Not physically, but in another way. In a way that meant something."

Stan leaned over to kiss him. They still had sex, though not often. The smell of snow and frozen pines reliably made Kyle's cock hard, which was a nuisance considering where they lived. Stan had more trouble with arousal lately, and he promised it was nothing to do with Kyle. He had no shortage of affection, anyway, and most nights Kyle was so tired that this was a relief.

"Anyway," Kyle said, laughing when Stan nuzzled at him in a particularly childish way. "I was the one who was really scared. Oh – speaking of that night, that historic occasion when you deflowered me? Remember, I'd run to you because I thought a demon would eat me or something?"

"We're so far away from that now," Stan said. "From – the spirits, I mean. I think? I walk here in the woods and don't feel them the way I used to, like this thing that was alive, watching me."

"The woods at the foot of the mountain are different, maybe," Kyle said. "These are calmer. They don't want us feeling watched."

"It all seems like a dream now," Stan said, and Kyle knew what he meant: those first months of their friendship and love, the miracle of Kyle falling into that same cave that Stan had, the loss of Stan's foot. To Kyle, Stan's foot seemed almost regrown, for all intents and purposes. Stan did what he liked now, though what he liked had changed.

"Your dog," Kyle said, meaning the one they'd buried twenty years ago. "Sparky."

"He was a good dog," Stan said, and he slid his arm around Kyle. They sat there for some minutes, maybe even half an hour, thinking about the good things they'd had and lost: Sparky, Butters, Kyle's father, Stan's ability to hold Kyle up against a tree trunk with one hand and administer the petroleum jelly with the other.

"Do you still think trees have souls?" Kyle asked, knowing the answer.

"Sure," Stan said. "Can't you feel it?"

They looked up at the swaying leaves, many of them brightly colored at this time of year, beautiful in a way that meant they were near death. Kyle leaned onto Stan more fully, clutching at his shirt, and Stan's hand tightened on his shoulder.

"I can feel it, yes," Kyle said. He pinched his eyes shut and breathed in the smell of Stan, still afraid, or just sad, about how quickly this moment would pass, as all their perfect moments had.

"Darling," Stan said, because it was all they needed to say anymore, the talisman they exchanged that erased every fear. Kyle opened his eyes and looked up at the leaves again. He smiled, leaned into the kiss Stan pressed to his cheek, and wondered what he should cook for dinner. Such things still mattered, in this lifetime.


End file.
